


paris holds the key to your heart

by softhar



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Descriptions of Blood, Enemies to Lovers, Historical, M/M, Royal Harry, Slow Burn, and louis is just a chaotic and grumpy gay, based on anastasia, french pastries?, kind of, no homophobia because gay is okay!, there are no other tags to describe this, to be honest this is just a fully self indulgent fic based on the musical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2020-05-15 13:38:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 38,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19296865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softhar/pseuds/softhar
Summary: “I’m Niall Horan,” he introduces himself and Harry grins, pretending he hasn’t known all along. “What’s your name?”“I… I don’t know,” Harry says, his face flushing red when Louis throws his head back and lets out the loudest cackle.“How do you not know what your name is?” he asks in between laughs.“They…” he falters for a second and looks down, ashamed. “They gave me a name at the hospital; Harry. They said I had amnesia. There was nothing they could do about it.”✧・ﾟ:it’s 1925. st. petersburg is now called leningrad and harry doesn’t remember who he is.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **SUPER IMPORTANT PSA !!!!:** this fic is based _solely_ on the broadway musical and contains tons of historical inaccuracies and translations { because idk how to speak russian or polish or french so google translate is my best friend }. most of the scenes are taken Straight out of the musical and some are MY OWN { you'll know which ones are which if you've seen the musical }. the storyline and original characters are not my own and i do not claim them because Uh copyright so YEAH!!!!!!!  
> with that out of the way, please enjoy the fic and message me if you have any questions or if u actually speak russian or french and want to correct me!!!

_“Hope is the thing with feathers_ _  
_ _That perches in the soul,_   
_And sings the tune without the words,_ _  
_ And never stops at all.”

_~ Emily Dickinson_

 

**Петергофский дворец, Петергоф ~ 1906**

_The snow outside the cheerful, brightly lit palace fell heavily as Feliks Romanov got tucked into his soft, warm bed by his smiling Nana, the black feathers on her maroon hat tickling his nose whenever she leaned down to press an affectionate kiss to his cheek._

_“Why must you go, Nana?” Feliks asked sadly, his short blond hair fanned out over the silk pillow when he finally settled down against it._

_“It’s time, my darling. I’ve stayed here too long,” she answered softly as she sat down on the edge of the bed next to him._

_“But I want to go to Paris with you!” he huffed petulantly and crossed his arms over the cornflower-coloured comforter covering his body_

_“You’ll visit with your siblings, I’ll make sure of it,” she said firmly and ran a wrinkled hand through his soft hair. “There’s a bridge there named after your grandfather, did you know that?” Feliks shook his head, a small frown appeared between his furrowed light eyebrows, and she allowed the smallest smile to appear on her lips. “The Pont Alexandre. We’ll walk on it together and we’ll go see the ballet every night!”_

_The faintest of twitches made the corners of his mouth turn up into a slight smile, but it was quickly replaced by a childish pout. “I want you to take me now!”_

_“Феля, I already have. Wherever I go, you will always be with me, I promise. You’re my favourite, did you know?” Nana’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, causing Feliks to giggle quietly. “Strong, not afraid of anything.”_

_“Like you!”_

_She used the tip of her bony finger to gently tap his nose before turning to pull something out of the large travelling bag sitting on the floor by her feet. When she faced him again, a small, bronze music box sat on her palm, the tiny encrusted jewels glinting under the light when she turned it in her hands to show it to him._

_“Sh, our little secret,” she whispered again and carefully twisted the small wind-up key on the bottom three times while Feliks scrambled up to sit straight against the white headboard, watching Nana with wide eyes as she pressed a small button with an F on the front and slowly pulled the lid open._

_The tiny figurines of a man dressed in a white military uniform and a woman dressed in a bright red dress that reached her feet happily spun around the music box along to the soft, familiar melody coming from inside it._

_“Our lullaby!” he exclaimed excitedly and Nana nodded her head, slowly placing the artefact on his wiggling hands._

_“When you play it,” she murmured, watching him through tear-filled eyes, “think of an old woman who loves you very much.”_

_Feliks’ closed eyes quickly snapped open at the sound of heels clicking outside his closed door coming closer and he shut the music box’s lid and put it between his crossed legs before covering it with his small pale hands._

_“Have you said your prayers, my sweet Feliks?” his mother walked into the room, the delicate lace train of her white dress slithering in behind her, and left the light blue door open, letting in the laughs and music from the party happening downstairs in the large ballroom. The clear diamonds adorning the silver crown that sat on her head shone under the lamps as she made her way to Feliks’ bed, her gloved hands laced together in front of her._

_“Yes, Mama,” he mumbled quietly and glanced his grandmother from under his eyelashes, attentively watching the way she looked down at the floor and twisted her mouth into a small grimace as Mama walked closer to his bed._

_“For your father, the Tsar, your brother and sisters. For Russia herself?”_

_“Yes, Mama.”_

_“What is this?” she asked after noticing the music box hidden under Feliks’ hands and raised an inquisitive eyebrow, her dark eyes curiously flicking between Nana and him._

_“A music box,” Nana answered before Feliks even had the chance to open his mouth and come up with an excuse. “So he can remember me when I leave.”_

_“Better prayers than music boxes right now,” Mama scoffed under her breath and crossed her arms over her chest, turning her nose away from his grandmother._

_His father suddenly walked in through the open door and reached Feliks’ bed in two long strides, his face red and sweaty from dancing all evening, and the medals on his chest clinked together when he abruptly stopped in front of Nana._

_“It’s the last ball of the winter season, Mama!” he exclaimed for the thousandth time that day and threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. “All of Petersburg is here!”_

_“We have been through this_ many _times, Nicholas,” Nana sighed softly and stood up from the bed, straightening the skirts of her dark dress and brushing invisible lint off it._

_“She’s right.” Mama subtly glared at his father and he simply just shook his head and clasped his hands behind his back, clearly defeated._

_“Remember, my love. Paris,” Nana said, sadness laced in her voice, and pressed a quick kiss to the top of Feliks’ head before rapidly exiting the room and leaving a soft trail of her orange blossoms perfume behind._

_“Nana, no!” he cried and set the music box aside to clumsily climb off the tall bed. “Nana, wait!”_

_He started to run towards the door as fast as his short, chubby legs would allow him but he was immediately picked up by his father, spun twice and placed back on the bed. Standing there, he almost reached his father’s chin so when he looked up at him, his bottom lip wobbling, Feliks didn’t have to tilt his head back that much._

_His mother stepped in next to his father as soon as the first tears became visible to them  and offered Feliks one of her hands, her eyes sympathetic but her mouth set into a straight line without even the faintest hint of a smile. “The Tsarina requests the first dance of the night, monsieur.”_

_The young  boy’s sadness disappeared the moment he took his mother’s hand, hopped off his bed and bowed (this time without stumbling). (A very important accomplishment he would have to tell Maria about the next day.)_

_“I am the Tsesarevich Feliks Nikolaevich Romanov!” he yelled proudly and began spinning around the room with Mama, just like the figurines in his music box, their laughter drowning out the band playing in the ballroom._

 

*＊✿❀　❀✿＊*

 

**_Зимний дворец. Санкт-Петербург, Росси́я_ ** **_~ 1917_ **

_The multiple lit chandeliers hanging from the ceiling brightened the Winter Palace’s walls in a way Feliks had never seen it be, adding to the already cheery atmosphere he was surrounded by. People dressed in elegant silk clothes danced and chatted in happily French all around him, the band in the corner playing non-stop as the cold night went on. The girl he was dancing with let out a delighted giggle as he twirled her around, her pale blue skirts fluttering around her when she put her hand back on his shoulder._

_The tall floor-to-ceiling windows let the guests know that outside, the snow was falling heavily, the sky was dark and covered with grey clouds and the great Reka Neva was completely frozen and yet, everyone inside couldn’t seem to stop smiling and couldn't care less. The girl let go of his hand with a bright smile on her face and moved on to dancing with an older, much better dancer than Feliks and was almost instantly replaced by his eldest sister, Olga._

_The smile on her face was the brightest he had seen in a very long time and the wrinkles by her dark brown eyes didn’t seem to want to ever disappear as he put his gloved hand on her waist and she placed hers on his shoulder. Just like their other sisters, she was dressed in a rose-gold dress that brushed past her ankles, a light pink cape decorated with golden thread was wrapped around her shoulders and a pink tiara with pearls and delicate diamonds sewn into the fabric with gold lace rested on her strawberry blonde curls, a pink bow holding two small braids together on the back of her head._

_“You look happy, little brother,” she remarked while they danced around the room, greeting people with a bright smile as they twirled past them._

_“I am happy, Оленька,” he told her before puffing out a breath to push a curl that kept getting into his eyes. “This is the most fun we’ve had in weeks!”_

_A couple swaying from side to side to their right laughed politely and agreed with him before turning to look at each other with so much love in their eyes that Feliks’ heart hurt. Olga must have been able to read his expression, though, because she pulled them away from the couple and laced her fingers with his, giving his hand a small squeeze. Their moment was gone, however, when Feliks stepped on Olga’s feet twice in a row, causing the girl to tilt her head back and let out laughs so loud their parents glared at them from the other side of the ballroom._

_After dancing for at least two more songs, a girl with her blonde hair pinned back happily skipped towards them with mischief glinting in her grey eyes. He knitted his eyebrows together and stopped dancing, nudging Olga with his elbow to turn around as well. Maria’s short heels stopped clicking against the polished floor just as their eldest sister turned to face her, a dark eyebrow arched in curiosity._

_“We’re to take a family picture,” she drawled, one side of her mouth tilting up into a small smirk. The pearls on her tiara glimmered under the light coming from the crystal chandelier hanging from the tall ceiling. “Alexei and Tatiana are already waiting for us.”_

_Both siblings rolled their bright eyes and flashes of annoyance appeared on their face but it quickly disappeared as their sister placed herself between them and laced her fingers with theirs before pulling them to where their family was huddled together around the photographer, clearly waiting for them._

_“Feliks!” Alexei exclaimed happily once he spotted his older brother, lifting a hand to wave enthusiastically. His face looked so much paler and the purple circles around his eyes looked darker than they ever had, and that worried Feliks. A lot. “We haven’t seen each other in so long!”_

_“Алёша,” he chuckled fondly, ruffling his brother’s dark hair, “I danced with you an hour ago.”_

_“Do you think you two could be quiet? Even if it’s for a second?” Tatiana cut in, exasperation clear in her voice, and wrapped her dark arm around Feliks’ waist once Olga detached herself from him to talk to their parents, the pearls on her tiara brushing against his cheek as she fixed the sky blue sash that was placed Harry’s chest with her free hand. “We really do need to take this picture.”_

_“Yes, Mother,” Feliks and Alexei answered at the same time, sending them into a fit of giggles that made Tatiana scoff and roll her eyes._

_“Could you please sit down, Your Imperial Majesties?” the photographer asked the four of them kindly in Russian and gestured toward a small red velvet bench that had been pushed against one of the tall gilded columns, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling when he smiled. Still giggling, his older sisters moved to stand behind the bench, allowing their mother and father to sit on it side by side. Being the youngest, Feliks and Alexei sat in front of their family, their legs crossed in front of them._

_“Smile for the camera!” the photographer told them, holding the artefact in his wrinkled hands. The family immediately stopped whispering between themselves and they turned their faces toward him, their mouths set in a straight line and their chins tilted upward just in time for the flash to go off, blinding them all for a second._

_Quiet giggles were heard throughout the room and Feliks pursed his lips to stop himself from laughing as well as he blinked his eyes quickly, trying to get rid of the colourful spots dancing in his vision. As far as he knew, there weren’t any photographs where any member of his family was smiling, and it had become a sort of family tradition. He could hear his sisters stifling their laughter and silently hoped they weren’t smiling or laughing when the flash went off for the second time._

_The photographer peeked at them from behind the camera and opened his mouth to say something, but a loud BANG! coming from outside interrupted him. Behind him, Feliks’ parents glanced at each other in alarm and the murmur of the guests whispering amongst themselves became panicked shouts when they heard a second explosion, closer to the ballroom this time. The lamps flickered, leaving the room in complete darkness for just a second, and the chandelier hanging above their trembled, dust from the ceiling landing on everyone’s expensive clothes._

_A dozen soldiers burst into the room with large guns in their hands and Feliks heard his sisters let out muffled screams at the sight of them._

_“What’s going on?” Olga whimpered as Feliks scrambled to get up on his feet, looking around the room anxiously._

_“We’re going to be okay,” his father answered in an attempt to calm his daughters, but the slight quiver in his voice made the three of them burst into tears and huddle together, their hands linked together tightly as they backed away to press their backs against the wall._

_Feliks was quick to go with them after making sure Alexei was safe with his father. His mother joined them a second later and added a set of long nails to the other three digging into his arm the moment the soldiers started asking the guests about where his family was._

_“What’s happening?” he asked his mother in a quiet whisper but she simply shook her head and continued scanning the room with fear in her eyes and a frown on her face._

_“Ваше Императорское Высочество!” a red-faced officer ran up to them, the gun in his hand clicking subtly when he reached them. “The Bolsheviks are preparing to attack at midnight. We have to get you somewhere safe right now.”_

_“Malik. Have you seen my husband?” his mother asked, her eyes set on the guests being calmly let out of the ballroom instead of looking at him._

_“Yes, your Majesty,” he answered as he turned on heel and carefully led them out of the now empty ballroom. “The Tsar is waiting for you with the Tsarevich by the front door.”_

_Malik thoroughly explained the lengthy plan to them — they were to be moved to a safe house in the West and a group of just four soldiers would stay with them for absolute discretion — but the information disappeared from Feliks’ brain the second he spotted Alexei’s exhausted body leaning against his father’s side and he let go of his sisters’ hands to run to his younger brother and wraps his arms around him in a tight hug._

_“I’m so tired, Феля,” Alexei mumbled tiredly against Feliks’ chest, letting his arms hang by his side instead of hugging him back and Feliks’ heart squeezed painfully at his words._

_“It’s okay,” he murmured, pressing his lips to the top of Alexei’s head and simply tightened his arms around him. “We’re going to be okay.”_

_He felt three pairs of arms wrap around them and warm tears soak his dirty clothes and he used one of his arms to hug Maria’s waist and hold her close, not caring at all how strange they must’ve looked to the soldiers._

_They cried together for God knows how long, their tears turning to ice as soon as they reached their chins, until someone gently tapped Feliks’ shoulder from behind him and whispered, “we have to go, darling.”_

_Sniffling, he slowly pulled away from the tight embrace and turned towards his father, the sorrowful expression on his face blurry through Feliks’ tears, and nodded once._

_“We really should go, your Majesties,” Malik whispered quietly and a soldier opened the main doors carefully, a few flurries falling at his feet, the storm from before having left tall mountains of fresh white snow throughout the vast garden._

_His sisters were the first ones to walk out of the palace — Maria in the middle and Tatiana and Olga by her sides, their shoulders shaking violently with the sobs that left their mouth and their fingers laced together tightly as they made their way down the marble staircase. Alexei tried to go next but he tripped when he took the first step, so Feliks quickly scooped him up in his arms and let him weakly wrap his arms around his neck._

_“They won’t hurt us,” he told Alexei softly, feeling his brother’s heart rate pick up significantly against his chest as they followed their sisters’ steps and tried not to slip and kill them both. “They’re taking us somewhere safe.”_

_At the bottom of the stairs, seven soldiers stood with their backs straight, their chins lifted and black guns strapped across their back, their hands resting against their thighs. Frowning, Feliks stood next to Tatiana and carefully placed Alexei down on the frozen ground, letting him lean against his side. His mother slipped in between Maria and Olga and took their hands while his father stood next to his youngest and held his hands behind his back._

_“I love you,” Feliks whispered to his sister as he took her trembling hand and gave it a small, hopefully reassuring squeeze. She turned her face to him with tears streaming down her frozen red cheeks and gave him a watery smile._

_“I love yo—” she started to say but she was interrupted by a piercing scream that went straight through his heart and he craned his neck toward the source of the scream just in time to see Olga fall on top of a small mountain of snow that slowly began to turn scarlet, the thick drops of blood that were coming from the perfectly round wound in the middle of her forehead dripping over her cold and lifeless eyes._

_Feliks had no time to process what had just happened because the soldiers were raising their guns one by one and firing them at his family, the bullets wheezing through the air mixing in with their family’s screams as they fell next to each other on the snow, tinting it a bright red._

_His time came the second after a bullet pierced Tatiana’s stomach and her body hit the ground with a dull thud and he felt a searing pain go throughout his whole body when the soldier in front of him fired at his waist, causing him to stumble back and trip over Tatiana’s outstretched arm, his entire world spinning when his head hit a frozen puddle._

_The last thing he saw before it all went black were the stars peeking from behind grey clouds and twinkling brightly under the dark night sky._

 

*＊✿❀　❀✿＊*

 

**_Дворцовая Площадь, Росси́я_ ** **_~ 1925_ **

The sun has just begun tinting the sky the colour of blushing cheeks when the city starts to wake up. People bundled up in torn coats, worn-out hats and fingerless gloves walk out of their homes and trickle into the streets of Leningrad, their feet leaving thousands of footprints on the freshly fallen snow. In the street markets, the vendors set up their stands in hopes that this will finally be the day when they sell at least one piece of frozen fruit or vegetables but feel their hopes deflate as they watch others run around in the snow, looking for fallen coins between the small pebbles stuck to the ground.

 In _Дворцовая Площадь_ , a man dressed in a coffee-coloured uniform walks back and forth, his gloved hands clasped behind his back and his eyebrows knitted together as he watches everyone walk by. A small name tag sewn into the right breast of his shirt with the word _‘Malik’_ embroidered on it peeks out from behind an unbuttoned navy-coloured coat, the name causing everyone who catches sight of it to quicken their pace.

A few streets from there, a young man thanks a boy who can’t be older than twelve when he’s handed the newspaper of the day and drops the few coins he has on him on the boy’s small frozen hand. 

“Have a good day, Louis!” the boy yelled out as he runs down the street with the pile of newspapers stacked under his armpit, a bright grin on his face despite the icy air hitting his face.

“Be careful, Sergei!” Louis yells back as he unrolls the paper with a small chuckle, resuming his journey towards Palace Square. Not more than 5 minutes pass by when he is joined by a tired-looking blonde girl, her braided hair pinned back with a thin red ribbon. 

“Hi, Louis,” she greets him, bumping her shoulder against his in a playful manner. He hums in acknowledgement and continues to rapidly flip through the paper, nervously nibbling on his bottom lip at what he’s reading.

“Anything new we must know about?” she asks quietly, her eyes darting around them nervously as they get closer to the busier streets.

“Have you seen this?” Louis asks her, showing her the front page and slapping it with the back of his hand. “It’s ridiculous, Karina! Absolutely ridiculous! _‘The Revolution Hears You!’”_  he scoffs. “I’m _sure_ it does.”

Karina laughs softly, takes the paper from him and places it under her arm before turning her face towards him, blue eyes glinting with mischief. “Have you heard—”

The moment she places her tattered boot in the Square, a group of 3 familiar faces run toward them, all of them talking so fast than Louis is able to hear any language _except_ Russian.

“Okay, okay. One at a time!” Louis raises his voice slightly, deep crinkles forming by his eyes as he tries not to laugh. He scans the group in front of him for a moment before stopping on a brown-haired girl and points at her. “Annika, you first.”

Annika sends a toothy grin his way as she makes her way to him from the back of the group and leans in once they’re face to face, her voice dropping to a whisper. Immediately, the rest of the group leans toward her to listen to what she has to say even though they most likely already know.

“Have you heard,” she starts, unknowingly repeating Karina’s words from before, her warm brown eyes glancing around for a moment before focusing on him once more, “the rumour that has been going around lately?”

“Er, no? Should I have?” Louis raises an eyebrow curiously, reaching up to tuck a fallen lock of hair back under his cap. 

“They’ve been talking about it in the streets for a while now,” someone else — Adrian — pipes in. “They say that while the Tsar did not survive, one of his children may still be alive; prince Feliks.”

“Oh, please.” Louis rolls his eyes, noticing a dark figure slowly approaching them in his peripheral vision. “Tell me you don’t really believe in that nonsense.”

“It’s just a rumour.” Karina shrugs her shoulders and subtly leads the group to stand next to the tall Alexander Column, apparently having noticed the figure as well. “They say her grandmama will pay an _enormous_ sum to someone who can bring the prince back.”

In front of the abandoned, massive teal palace standing behind them, an angry crowd has gathered and is now yelling at Officer Malik, his mouth set into a straight line as he tries to calm the people in front of him.

“Comrades, please!” he says loudly over the insults being thrown at him, taking Louis’ attention away from his friends. He excuses himself from his own group and slowly creeps closer to Malik, not noticing the people following after him. “We hear you! _The revolution hears you!_ Together, we can form a new Russia — a Russia that will be the envy of the entire world! The Tsar’s St. Petersburg is now _our_ Leningrad!”

Someone behinds Louis scoffs at the same time he does — and if he almost jumps out of his own skin at the sound, there is absolutely no evidence to prove it — and he turns around quickly, his hands already balled into fists. After taking a deep breath to calm his racing heart, he rolls his eyes at the sight of his friends huddled together behind him, their eyebrows furrowed in annoyance.

“They’ve been calling it Leningrad for years now,” a girl called Inna says from behind Annika, fixing the piece of cloth wrapped around her head. “But it will _always_ be Petersburg.”

“Same name, same empty stomachs,” Louis agrees with her darkly and sends her a crooked grin, his stomach coincidentally growling at that moment. He crouches down and they instantly form a circle around him subtly when they notice that a few people from the angry crowd have wandered off and are now trying to listen to their conversation. “They tell us times are better, but they’re really not.”

“A brighter day is dawning,” he hears Malik say, and he mimics him under his breath. “It’s almost at hand! We promise.”

Above him, Karina lets out a quiet scoff and shakes her head, a few locks of hair falling from her ribbon as she turns her head to glare at Malik’s back. “The skies are _grey,_ the walls have had ears for years and _they_ will probably be gone tomorrow.” she points to the yelling mob behind them with her thumb.

“Oh, come on,” Adrian says and glances around at the others. “The city’s very friendly—” 

_“If you don’t mind spies,”_ Louis cuts in. Everyone except Adrian nods their heads and Louis sends a small, teasing smile his way and ignores the playful glare Adrian sends him. On the other side of the column, a small market has apparently been set up while they were talking, meaning that the Square is going to get crowded soon. Meaning that they should probably _wrap it up._

“ _Now everyone is equal,_ ” Louis continues and shakes the snow off his clothes as he stands up, reciting from memory what he’d read in the newspaper the day they got rid of everyone’s beloved Petersburg and switched it to Leningrad. “Professors push the brooms; and yet, two dozen live in two small rooms.”

“You’re telling me,” Annika complains and lets out an annoyed huff, narrowing her eyes when Louis and Karina both snort at the same time. “But, thank _goodness_ for the gossip; otherwise I would die.”

“Stop being so dramatic,” Inna says with a teasing smile before scrambling away along with everyone else the moment someone slams their boot on the pavement behind her. Once gone, an angry-looking Officer Malik steps forward, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Tomlinson,” he says cooly, his honey-coloured eyes colder than ever. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

“Apologies, Officer. I’ll get out of your hair right now.” Louis sends him a quick wink before hurrying towards the loud market, his heart thumping so hard in his chest that it feels like it’s going to burst out at any time.

After what seems like thousands of years of staring at a frozen apple, he hears his name being called out multiple times and suddenly, there’s a breathless man standing next to him and a gloved hand being placed on his shoulder.

“Louis!” Niall wheezes and leans his hands against his knees to catch his breath. “They closed another border! We really should’ve left Russia when we still could.” he takes another deep breath, pushes the strands of brown hair sticking to his forehead and continues in a hushed whisper, “I swear, _St. Petersburg_ was so much lovelier when royalty was in. I called myself a count as though I’d always been one and no one ever said otherwise. But they kill the Tsar, all the royals fled and _comrade,_ now we’re stuck!”

Louis winces when Niall hits him with the fur-covered hat he’d been holding. “Niall! I’ve been thinking about Prince Feliks lately.”

“Not _you_ too, Louis,” Niall groans and shakes his head. “This is getting too ridiculous.”

“But listen; it’s _the_ rumour, the legend, _the_ mystery. Prince Feliks is going to be the one who helps us go down in history because, friend, we _are_ going to make it.” he bumps their shoulders together and watches how Niall slips the frozen apple he’d been staring at before into the small pocket on his coat. “We’ll find a boy who looks just like him, teach him what to say. Dress him up and take him to _Paris_.”

Niall’s lips slowly spread into a smirk as the realisation of what their reward would be hits him and he pulls Louis along with him away from the square, rattling off happily about the plans already forming in his head.

Across from the market, however, and on the other side of the Alexander Column, a boy with soft, chestnut curls that fall down to his shoulders grips a chipped broom in his pale hands, the tips of his fingers slowly turning purple as he attempts to sweep the snowy street. Nearby, the sound of an explosion startles him and he falls to the ground with a terrified yelp, covering his head with his arms as if he were protecting himself from something.

“It was a truck backfiring, that’s all it was, comrade,” Officer Malik says kindly from above him after running towards him and holds out a gloved hand. When the boy takes it, Malik pulls him up gently, bends to pick up the fallen broom and brushes the snow from it. “That’s all it was. Those days are over; everyone against everyone.” He stops for a moment, looking over the boy in front of him for the first time. “You’re shaking. There’s a tea shop just a few minutes from here, let me—”

“No, thank you,” the boy finally says but doesn’t look up from his worn-out boots. He speaks slowly, his voice so deep Malik thinks he might be doing it on purpose, but there’s a slight tremor on it when he talks.

“What’s your hurry?” Malik asks him, his voice unintentionally colder than it was before.

The boy finally looks up, his eyes so bright and green as he looks into Malik’s honey ones and his long hair delicately falling over his pale face as he shakes his head. “Jobs aren’t easy to come by, nowadays. But… thank you.”

Malik watches open-mouthed as the boy takes the broom from his hands and runs off toward the crowded market, not looking back. “I’m here every day!” he calls after him, motioning to the square with his index finger before realising the boy did not hear a word he said.

In a nearby alley, another, much smaller market has been set up, golden-looking trinkets glimmering under the dull morning sun on their respective stands. Vendors call after Niall and Louis as they walk by, whispering plans to each other with mischievous grins on their faces.

“A rouble for this painting; it’s Romanov, I swear!” a middle-aged man steps in front of them, holding a small bronze frame containing a painting of two young girls dressed in matching lilac dresses, gripping small blue flowers in their chubby hands.

“Comrade, these are count Yusupov’s pyjamas! Come buy your pair!” a second man steps in front of the other, a set of pyjamas made out of blue silk draped across his forearms.

“No, thank you,” Niall murmurs, an annoyed look crossing his face as he pushes past the men and tugs Louis along with him. “Bunch of charlatans, these people.”

Louis shoots him an amused glance but lets himself be pulled by his friend. They are able to walk a few meters before they are stopped by a man that’s almost a head shorter than him. He pulls a small music box made out of what looks like bronze with small encrusted jewels around the edge. _They could be real,_ is what Louis first thinks before realising the artefact is too dirty to actually tell.

Before either the man or Louis can say anything, Niall turns his head towards him, a growing smirk on his face and mischief glinting in his sky-coloured eyes. ”We need something to show the old lady so she’ll believe us when we bring ‘Prince Feliks’ to her.” he makes air quotes with his fingers when he mentions the Prince, his voice so quiet Louis can barely hear him. 

“Well, I mean—” Louis eyes the music box warily, then moves his eyes up to the vendor’s face and feels his nose wrinkle in disgust as he grins at them with malice and reveals that his two front teeth are missing and the rest are not too far off. 

He wants to say no, but in his mind there are images already forming in his head of him taking a bath in a _fancy Parisian hotel_ with a view of what he recently learned is called _Эйфелева башня_ , a glass of blood-red wine in his hand and the water in the tub so warm that he can feel the permanent ice surrounding his bones melting away and never coming back. And so, Louis copies the man’s malicious grin and nods his head quickly, his fingers twitching excitedly in his pocket.

“Perfect!” Niall explains happily and points to the dirty artefact on the vendor’s even dirtier hands. “How much for that music box?”

“Ah, the music box. I found it in the _Зимний дворец_ , an F engraved on it,” he says in a mysterious tone and holds it up so they can see it better. “It’s genuine Romanov! I could never part with it.” 

Louis resists the urge to roll his eyes as he opens the satchel resting against his hip, pulling out his only source of food for the day. “Two cans of beans, comrade?”

“Done.” his voice becomes so much deeper and Louis is so startled he doesn’t notice the man has already grabbed the food cans and replaced them with the — surprisingly — heavy music box.

Louis runs his fingertips along the edge where the top half would be opened and feels his finger move over the smooth jewels, unintentionally wiping away some of the grime on them but not realising as he looks for a button or a windup key he could use to listen to its melody. “Do you believe in fairytales, Ni?”

Niall sends a puzzled look his way but shrugs his shoulders after a moment. “Maybe once upon a time I did.”

“Now, this is risky, but not more so than usual. We’re going to create such a fairytale the entire world will believe!” Louis grabs him by the arm and pulls him out into the crowded street, carefully slipping the music box into his satchel. “We’ll need papers, tickets and most importantly, we _will_ need nerves of steel.”

“Louis, it is risky, _a lot_ more so than usual,” Niall tells him, shrugs his’ arm off and sighs. “But you’re right. All we have to do is cross the border, have someone who looks _exactly_ like Feliks and a believable plan. Hopefully, we won’t have any problems.”

Louis rolls his eyes at his friend’s sarcasm. “With luck, it’ll go smoothly and with luck, we won’t get _shot.”_

“Who else could pull it off but you and me?” Niall excitedly pushes Louis’ shoulder, then pumps his fist in the air. “We’ll be _rich!”_

“We’ll get _out!”_

“And this stupid city will finally have something to talk about!”

They are probably attracting too much unwanted attention with their yells, but with excitement and happiness bubbling in their stomachs and a road full of opportunities and possibilities stretching out in front of them, they really couldn’t care less.

 

*＊✿❀　❀✿＊*

 

**_Дворец Юсуповых, Росси́я_ **

Harry follows the once red carpet towards the source of the voices that resonate against the empty palace’s walls, his eyes darting around nervously as he holds the old coat tightly around his shivering body.

His entire day had been spent running around Leningrad’s frozen streets, begging people for help, only for them to turn away from him and become cold the moment they heard his accent. The sun had just begun setting in the horizon and painting the sky in different hues of pink and oranges when he stumbled into an alley full of people pressed against the wall and against each other and finally found a woman who would help him, his face turning uncomfortably hot when he realised she had thought he wanted her, ah… _services._ Of course, she just laughed when he denied it as quickly as he could and asked how she could help him. With snow melting in his shoes, he told this woman the story of how he’d gotten here from the East just a week ago and how he _desperately_ needed exit papers to get out of Russia as soon as possible. She’d just smiled at him, small dimples appearing on her pale cheeks and told him to find a fellow called ‘Louis’.

“And when you see him, please remind him he still owes me, Karina, three cans of beans,” she’d told him as they walked to the end of the alley, her red shawl wrapped around her shoulders in an effort to block out the cold air. Chuckling, Harry had thanked her and promised he would make sure to remind _Louis_ about her beans.

So now, he’s walking inside of an abandoned, crumbling yellow palace built in front of the now-frozen Neva River, the icy wind howling in the vacant rooms as he tries to find the man who will — hopefully — get him out of this country.

The carpet ends abruptly in front of a marble staircase leading to a wide hallway downstairs, the hem of it having burnt and ripped marks as if the person — or people — who destroyed this palace just stopped burning it midway.

The voices are much clearer now, so he makes his way down the stairs as quietly and slowly as he can and tries not to trip over his own feet. He stops in front of a pair of almost-open doors that almost reach the ceiling, the handles covered in so much black dust he can’t see what they’re actually made of.

Carefully, he pushes one of the doors with the tips of his fingers and winces at the loud creaking sound it makes and peeks over the edge of the door once there’s a big enough gap for him to look into the room without being spotted.

He can’t see much, but it looks like it’s quite a long white room with rows and rows of seats covered in ripped velvet facing a wooden stage that has, from what he can see, two girls huddled together standing on it. The walls seem to have been perfectly white and smooth at some point but now they’re almost completely black with dust, and there are golden vines covered in rust that run around the few columns that support a crumbling second floor.

Harry pushes the door just a little bit more and finds there’s a boy with golden curls standing in front of two other men that are sitting on the floor. The torn curtain hanging from the ceiling on either side of the stage is still a deep purple colour and there’s furniture covered in white sheets behind the two men where one of them is leaning back against what seems to be a sofa, the only light illuminating the room being the moonlight streaming in through the windows on the second floor. 

“I am _the_ Tsesarevich Feliks Romanov!” the boy’s saying while he holds a crumpled piece of paper close to his face — probably where he’s reading what he just said from — and misses the way one of the men covers his face with his hands.

“Can you try again?” the one leaning against the sofa fixes the cap on his head, his voice slightly high-pitched but raspy when he speaks and Harry feels his knees buckle involuntarily a bit at it. “Without the gum in your mouth this time?”

“It’s not _gum_ , it’s tobacco,” the boy retorts sassily and walks over to the giggling girls, shaking his head.

Harry watches the men turn to each other to say something and the one on the left stands up as he lets out a loud laugh and takes what seems to be a small notebook from the other’s hands.

The boy returns to his spot in front of the two men with his arms spread and a grin on his face so wide it looks like it’s going to split in half. “Grandmama, it’s _me!_ Your precious Feliks! They shot me, but I survived and I’ve _come all this way_ to see you again!” he kneels in front of the man on the floor and puts his hands on the man’s knees. Harry places his hands over his mouth to stifle his giggles at the way the man lets his head hang in desperation. “I’m not really an actor.”

The man holding the notebook silently stares at him for a second and then lets out a sarcastic and slow _‘no!’,_ snorting loudly when the boy stomps his foot against the floor childishly.

“Thank you, you three,” the other scrambles up to get on his feet, pushing the boy towards the still-giggling girls and Harry resists the urge to coo over the fact that he is ‘subtly’ standing on his tiptoes to appear taller.

“What you’re doing is illegal!” one of the girls suddenly yells, her brown hair bouncing against her back as she takes two long strides toward the men.

“For this, _we,”_ the blonde girl points at her and the brunette, “lost two hours on the street! If you weren’t so handsome, Louis, we’d report you to the police right now!”

_So this is Louis,_ Harry thinks as a small smile spreads across his face and he steps into the room quietly without letting go of the surprisingly heavy door.

“Gee. Thank you, ladies,” Louis responds and points to where Harry is without actually looking his way. “Out. Get out!”

The group hurries off the stage and towards the door and Harry lets out a soft yelp, quickly hiding behind one of the columns next to the door and holds on to it, watching them run by and not noticing he’s there at all.

“You tried, my friend,” Harry hears the other man say. “Felikss don’t grow on trees.”

“I don’t care, Niall,” Louis tells him. “I’ll go to Siberia to find a Feliks if I have to.”

“Have you… have you ever _been_ to Siberia?”

The room is quiet for a moment and Harry’s about to come out of hiding when Louis answers. “I’ve never been anywhere but _here_.” 

A second too late, Harry realises he’s lost his grip on the door and it slams closed with a loud ‘BAM!’, startling him so much his body starts shaking uncontrollably for the second time that day.

“Fuck!” Louis yells, the word bouncing against the walls twice before disappearing completely. “Those three ratted on us!”

“At least they’ll feed us in jail!” _Niall_ tells him and Harry listens to them run around the stage and then… Nothing. The room goes eerily quiet, the wind slipping in through the cracks on the walls loudly.

Harry stays hidden behind the column for what feels like ages but he finally steps around it until he’s standing in the wide space between the broken seats.

“Er. Hello?” he calls out quietly as he walks toward the stage, nervously nibbling on his bottom lip. “I’m looking for… uh, Louis?

“I’m Louis,” a voice says from behind the curtain on the right and he comes out of his hiding place just as Harry reaches the stage. “What do you want?”

When Harry looks up, he’s met with a pair of bright eyes the colour of the oceans the nurses told him about looking at him curiously and Harry’s breath catches in his throat.

Looming over him, a man with cheekbones so sharp Harry could probably cut himself with them if he touched them, a small button nose and caramel-coloured skin stands on the edge of the stage, his small hands on his hips. If Harry looks closer, he can see the small crinkles around Louis’ eyes and the short stubble coating his cheeks. Louis is dressed just like everybody else in Leningrad: an uncomfortable wool vest and a ‘thick’ flannel shirt to — barely — protect him from the cold, fingerless gloves that do nothing to stop people’s fingers from falling off in frozen clumps and a grey wool cap covering the chestnut hair that stops at the nape of his neck.

“What do you want?” he repeats slowly, raising an eyebrow at Harry. He has to blink multiple times and clear his throat twice to be able to look away from the man in front of him and find a spot on the floor to stare at.

“I need exit papers and somebody told me you’re the _only_ person who can get them,” Harry answers while making his way up the stage, eyes fixed on his shoes.

“Exit papers are expensive,” Louis tells him, annoyance creeping into his voice.

“I’ve saved a lot of money.”

“The right papers cost a lot,” he snaps and Harry finally looks up to glare at him, beginning to feel frustrated with him even though they met not even five minutes ago.

“I’m a hard worker! I promise you’ll get your money,” Harry says. Louis rolls his eyes and pulls out a chair from behind the curtain and sits on it.

“Okay, tell me. _What_ do you do?” he crosses his arms over his chest and raises an eyebrow expectantly at Harry.

“I’m a street sweeper.” he lifts his chin as if daring Louis to say anything about it. 

Of course, he just lets his mouth hang and lets out the most dramatic gasp known to man. _“A street sweeper!_ Would you look at that, Niall!”

Harry whirls around toward Niall, who looks like he wants to stop laughing at their interaction but really can’t. His dark hair keeps getting into his face even though he keeps combing it back with his fingers, eyes the colour of the sky looking at Harry with amusement.

“I washed dishes in Syktyvkar!” Harry tells them loudly. “And before that, I worked at the hospital in Perm.”

“Eh, that’s a long way from here.” Louis waves his hand dismissively, raising his eyebrows at Niall, unimpressed, and Harry grits his teeth.

“Yes, I know. I walked it,” he deadpans. This must catch their attention because not even a second later, he feels their curious gazes on him.

“You _walked_ to Petersburg?” Louis asks in disbelief. “All the way from Perm?”

“I had no choice, you know,” he tells him.

“What are you running from?” Niall asks him and walks around him to lean against the chair Louis is sitting on.

“I’m. I’m running _to_ someone,” he admits and shrugs his shoulders sheepishly. “I don’t know who they are, yet… But they’re waiting for me in Paris.”

“You don’t need papers to go to Paris!” Louis snorts, shaking his head. “There’s a canal out there; all you have to do is jump in and start swimming!”

Harry feels his face flush scarlet when the two men start laughing at him and cracks his knuckles in frustration with his thumb. He watches as Louis mouths _‘he’s crazy!’_ to Niall and bites down the urge to start yelling at him because, well, he _really_ needs those papers.

“Why are you being so unkind?” he asks a still-chuckling Louis.

“We were hoping you’d be someone else,” Niall tells him, smiling in a bittersweet way. “Someone who… might not even exist anymore.”

Harry opens his mouth to ask _who,_ but the question fades from his mind as a wave of déjà vu hits him unexpectedly and he stumbles back a little. He looks around the room and for a moment, it’s lit by a chandelier hanging on the ceiling that definitely wasn’t there when he first came in and he can hear music faintly playing and people laughing and the sound is coming from _somewhere_ and the walls and the golden vines are so spotless and perfect but then Harry blinks and the illusion is gone and he’s back in the destroyed room with two strangers standing on either side of him and a pounding headache.

“I’ve been in this room before,” he says slowly and the room spins for a second. “There was a play. I remember… I remember I drank champagne and everybody was so beautiful and so happy.”

“This used to be Count Yusupov’s private theatre,” Niall informs him, his voice laced with worry.

Harry ignores him and steps forward, his eyes fixed on the chandelier that keeps flickering in and out of his sight. “Everyone was so polite,” he says quietly.

“He’s going to faint on us!” Louis yells, but does nothing to help Niall look for a second chair for Harry to sit on.

“Jesus, when was the last time you had something to eat?” Niall asks him after finding a wooden stool behind the curtain on the left side of the stage and makes him sit on it. “Where are your damn manners, Tomlinson? Make yourself useful and get him some water and something to eat!”

Harry turns his face toward them just as Louis stands up and mutters angrily to Niall. They’re quiet for a bit, staring at each other, but Niall simply straightens his back and points toward where the backstage area would’ve been.

“You seem to be a gentleman,” Harry tells him softly after making sure Louis has gone, then bitterly adds, “even if your friend is not.”

“Gentleman? I haven’t been called that in such a long time,” Niall snickers, kneeling down next to Harry. “Life hasn’t been easy for him, you know.”

“Life hasn’t been easy for any of us,” he reminds him. Louis comes back a second later with a dirty glass filled with icy-cold water and Harry takes the glass, murmuring a quiet _‘thank you’._

“I’m Niall Horan,” he introduces himself and Harry grins, pretending he hasn’t known all along. “What’s your name?”

“I… I don’t know,” he says, his face flushing red when Louis throws his head back and lets out the loudest cackle he has ever heard.

“How do you not know what your name is?” he asks in between laughs.

“They…” Harry falters for a second and looks down, ashamed. “They gave me a name at the hospital; Harry. They said I had amnesia. There was nothing they could do about it.”

From the corner of his eye, he watches the two men’s faces light up at the same time as if the best opportunity of their life had just been presented to them on a golden platter.

“Well, tell us what you _do_ remember,” Niall says gently, his eyes reflecting the moon outside.

And so Harry does.

He tells them about the day he woke up at the hospital in Perm confused out of his sixteen-year-old mind as faceless nurses tended to the cuts on his arms and his legs and whispering about rumours he had no idea about above him. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there or what had happened or _who he was. Call him Harry,_ the nurses said, and the name stuck like glue until Harry himself believed it was his real name.

He talks about his journey to Leningrad ( _Petersburg,_ Louis reminds him. Harry pointedly ignores him.) and how he’d slept in the woods every day for almost two months and how he jumped at every work opportunity that was presented, no matter how small or insignificant the job actually was.

And then, feeling _quite_ foolish, Harry tells them about his dreams.

He tells them about the shadows that call for him every night the moment he closes his eyes but never use his name and the light at the end of the hall that appears just before he wakes up. Everything feels like a distant memory when he opens his eyes, but he thinks — no, he _knows_ — everything will come back to him one day. He describes the city he dreams about; a river sparkling in the sunlight and a bridge by a square. And while he tries to figure out where that is, there is always a voice whispering in the back of his head, _“I’ll meet you right here in Paris.”_

“You really don’t know what it’s like,” Harry says, his voice hoarse from being the only one talking for so long. “Not to have _any_ idea of who you are, to have lived in the shadows your entire life.”

Niall and Louis stare at him, their eyes wide open and he can feel them silently urging him on, can see the gears in their heads working on _something_ and he resists the urge to ask what it is. He bites down on his lip and looks down at his hands, fear coiling in the pit of his stomach when Niall finally speaks,

“Well, _Harry._ How would you feel about a road trip to Paris?”

Harry’s heart stops for a second and his hands itch as the word ‘no’ starts to form in his tongue, but then there’s a little voice in his head saying, _‘Don’t be afraid to go on, my love. Don’t give up hope, come what may.’_

And so he nods his head slowly and watches as excited grins appear on their faces, feeling himself grin equally as excitedly.

 

***＊✿❀　❀✿＊***

 

A whole uneventful week passes by and Harry spends it all cooped up inside the yellow palace with Niall and Louis trying to teach him how to be a _prince_ that is probably not even alive anymore.

He’s currently sitting on the edge of the stage, his legs swinging back and forth as Louis and Niall, who are sitting on either side of him, hold a worn-out leather picture album in front of him.

“So, first of all,” Niall starts and flips to the first page, revealing a picture of a laughing baby no older than a year sitting on the grass in front of what seems to be a staircase made up of small fountains that has been built around an even bigger fountain, statues perched on the edge of each step and if Harry looks hard enough, he can see the outline of a palace with thousands and thousands of windows. “You were born in a palace by the sea.”

“A palace by the sea,” Harry repeats quietly, reaching up hesitantly to brush the tip of his finger over the picture. “Could it really be?”

Niall nods, then points to the picture under the first one, which shows two young children, a girl and a boy, standing next to two light-coloured horses, both dressed in dark riding clothes and both looking more serious than any child their age should. “You started riding horseback when you were only three!”

“Horseback riding? Me?” Harry snorts loudly and shakes his head in disbelief.

“The horse’s name was Romeo,” Louis adds, wiggling his body happily.

“You continuously threw tantrums and _terrorised_ all the kitchen staff,” Niall laughs, looking so fond at the memory Harry almost believes he had been there. “You could _feel_ the palace shaking.”

“Charming child,” Louis mutters and Harry rolls his eyes instead of elbowing him, snickering when Niall slaps him across the head instead.

“Just imagine how it was; your long forgotten past!” Niall hands the album to Louis and pulls Harry up onto his feet. “We have so much left to teach you and so little time, so straighten your back, head up! Regal bearing, Harry!”

He runs his nails down Harry’s spine and he immediately straightens his back and stands a little taller.

“Do not walk but _try_ to float!” Niall tells him and lifts his arms in an attempt to give him balance, but.

The first steps he takes are clumsy and awkward and he trips over his own feet twice, but he at least manages to keep himself from falling on his face.

“I feel a little foolish,” he admits, his face burning a little. “Am I floating?”

“Like a sinking boat!” Louis answers him with a quiet snort and Harry stops everything to charge toward him with a scowl on his face but Niall is quick to wrap his arms around Harry’s waist and pull him back. 

“If I can learn to do it,” Niall whispers in his ear. “You can _definitely_ learn to do it. And I know something inside of you _knows_ there’s nothing to it.”

Harry wants to believe him but it’s hard to do when there’s a snickering Louis standing behind Niall, his arms crossed over his chest and his head tilted back. But he nods and lets himself be led to a small table in the left corner of the stage with broken china placed on it. He sits down, ignores the blatantly empty plate in front of him and picks the small cup up only to find there’s nothing in it either.

“Now sit up straight,” Niall says from behind him, pulling on his pinky when he slowly brings the cup to his lips. “And please, for the love of God, _never_ slurp the stroganoff.”

Harry wrinkles his nose in disgust and sets the cup back down on the table. “I never cared for stroganoff.”

“My God, he said that like a Romanov,” Niall says in amazement, staring at him in awe for a moment but then he shakes his head and pulls him up from the chair. “Alright, now we practice bowing!”

Harry watches curiously as Niall slowly bends down with an exaggerated flourish of his hand. “Where did you learn all this?”

“It’s from _all_ his years at court!” Louis tells him with fake excitement as he waves his hand dramatically and bends down until the tips of his hair are touching his shoes. Harry feels himself scowl at the sloppy action for a second but knits his eyebrows together in confusion, wondering why he felt so offended at Louis’ actions.

_“Bowing,”_ Niall huffs and glares at Louis as he comes back up with a smirk on his face. “is a sign of respect, Tomlinson.”

“I bowed to someone.” he looks down, a puzzled look on his face. _“Once.”_

“Ha!” Niall points a finger at him and Harry rolls his eyes, steps forward while Louis and Niall argue behind him and hesitantly copies Niall’s bow, something in his head telling him to rest a fist on the small of his back and the other just under his stomach, his curls falling over his face as he does. He hears the men behind him stop their bantering and Niall gasps for the millionth time that day. 

_“Where_ did you learn to do that? _”_ Louis asks curiously and him feels his body freeze as he realises how naturally the bow had come to him.

“I didn’t teach him that,” Niall murmurs. Harry turns to them with a shy smile and shrugs his shoulders. He watches as the proudest grin spreads over Niall’s face and happiness starts bubbling in his stomach. “He’s a _natural!”_

After that, Niall and Louis spend the entire afternoon scribbling on a — probably stolen — board, their fingers covered in white chalk as they try to make what seems to be a ridiculously big family tree.

The afternoon soon turns into night by the time they’re done and a snowstorm has started outside, trapping them all inside. Despite the freezing weather, Harry has taken his own coat off, untucked his shirt and pulled his hair up into a sweaty ponytail since he has been the one to make sure they’ve all been staying hydrated, meaning he’s been running around the palace all afternoon.

While they finish writing, Harry flips through the album they’d showed him earlier, courtesy of Louis after Harry’s second hour of whining. This is probably the tenth time Harry has gone through it, a lump forming in his throat as he traces the words printed under each picture with his finger.

“The Grand Peterhof Palace. Prince Feliks, May 24, 1902,” he mutters, reading the words written in golden ink that say _‘Большой Петергофский дворец. Принц Гюго, 24 мая 1902’._ He lifts his eyes from the words to look at the picture, the laughing baby on the grass making him feel something that he just _can’t explain_.

“Alright! We’re done!” Louis suddenly exclaims, making Harry jump onto his feet and snap the book shut. “Woah, there. Calm down comrade, it’s just us.”

He rolls his eyes for the _millionth_ time and opens his mouth to snap at him but Niall throws a balled up piece of paper at his head. _“Children._ It’s late. We’re all tired. Shut up. Now, Harry; who’s your great-grandmother?”

“Um…” he tries to remember the pictures he had _just_ been looking at. “Queen Victoria?”

“Correct!” Niall yells happily. “Who is your… great-great-grandmother?”

“Fuck,” he whispers, opening the album in his hands to find the right photograph while thinking how _ridiculous_ this is because absolutely no one is going to ask who his fucking _great-great_ -grandmother is. At least he hopes not. “Princess Victoria of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfeld!”

_“Or_ the Duchess of Kent. Remember that, Harry,” Niall tells him, pointing a lazy finger to the board behind him. 

“Who’s your best friend?” Louis asks after a moment of silence.

“My little brother Alexei,” Harry answers confidently, taken back at how fast he replied and how he knew the name but neither Niall nor Louis react.

“Wrong! Your best friend is—”

“I know who my fucking best friend _is,_ Tomlinson!” he snaps, glaring at the man who’s been getting on his nerves for a week straight.

_“What_ a temper.” Louis rolls his eyes.

“I do _not_ like being contradicted!”

“Well, that makes two of us, sweetheart!”

_“Moving on,”_ Niall trails off nervously, his eyes filled with worry as he glances back and forth between Louis and Harry.

“You know what? I’ve had it,” Harry says through gritted teeth and throws the photo album he’s holding at Niall, who catches it with his two hands and holds it tightly to his chest. “And I hate you both so much and I wish never met. I’m hungry, I’m frightened, I don’t remember anything and you two are _using_ me so get the fuck out and leave me alone.”

He’s out of breath by the time he finishes, his chest is heaving and he’s got a finger pointing toward the cracked doors at the end of the theatre. Both men are staring at him with gaping mouths and he feels satisfaction run through his tired body.

“Harry…” Niall takes a tentative step forward and ignores the way Harry flinches when he puts a hand on his shoulder. “Listen to me. We’re _all_ tired and we’re _all_ hungry but that doesn’t mean this isn’t extremely important and that we should give up so just count to ten, yeah? Calm down and dry those pretty eyes of yours so we can start again.” He runs his thumb under Harry’s eye gently and wipes the tears Harry hadn’t even realised were there. “Ready?”

“Set,” Louis says, smiling at Harry for probably the first time since they met.

Harry closes his eyes, takes two deep breaths to slow his heart down and nods his head. “Go.”

He opens his eyes the moment they flip the board over, showing a second family tree, and feels himself smile when Niall sends a playful wink his way.

“Here’s your great Aunt Olga,” Niall says as he circles one of the names at the top with his chalk. “Your cousin Vanya loved his vodka. Got it?”

“Er…” he watches them circle the names of people he’s never heard of before and slowly shakes his head, but they just ignore him and keep drawing on the board.

“The Duke of Oldenburg was short!”

“Louise of Baden had a wart right under her eye.”

“Count Sergei wore a ridiculously big feather hat and—”

“And I recall his yellow cat!” Harry cuts Louis off, the memory of a small boy clumsily running after a fat cat with golden fur appearing in his mind. He knits his brows as Niall stops his writing and slowly turns to him, his eyebrows raised high as he mutters, “I don’t believe I told you that.”

Harry feels himself beam so widely he thinks his face might split in two and lets out a loud cackle, squeezing his eyes shut. He remembers the words Niall said to him _‘if I can learn to do it, you can definitely learn to do it’_ and suddenly he feels like there _is_ a chance that this might work after all.

However, Niall must be able to read his mind because he shakes his head and smirks cheekily when he says, “Not until you learn to dance, young man.”

“But— but. I… I can’t dance,” Harry sputters, already dreading the moment when he inevitably trips over his feet and instead focuses on thinking that Niall has absolutely no right in calling him ‘young man’ because he’s only a few years older than him. Besides, _who would he dance with?_

“Exactly! That’s why you’re _learning,”_ Niall replies as he pulls on his arm until he stumbles into place in front of a terrified-looking Louis. They stand there staring at each other for what feels like eons until Niall mutters something along the lines of _‘incompetent children’_ and arranges their arms so that Harry’s hand is on Louis’ surprisingly small waist, Louis has one hand on Harry’s shoulder and they’re both holding onto each other’s free hand.

This close, Harry is just noticing that Louis’ head comes up to the middle of his nose and he has to tilt it back to look — no, _glare_ — at him. He’s about to comment on it when Niall starts saying _‘one two three. One two three’_ repeatedly and then Louis is… stomping from side to side but at the same time somehow dragging his feet against the floor and looking _incredibly_ awkward. He steps on Harry’s foot after just a minute and Harry immediately lets go of him to whirl towards Niall, his mouth open in protest.

“Just… Just… Just…” Niall stammers, looking extremely done with the both of them, and just waves his hand. “And uh one two three…”

Harry turns back and huffs petulantly, glaring down at Louis as they resume their… ‘dancing’. He waits a few seconds before ‘accidentally’ kicking Louis’ shin and before he can react, Niall is yelling his name and suddenly there’s a chest pressed against his back, a second hand on his shoulder and a third holding Harry and Louis’ linked hands. His voice is higher when he continues counting and the three of them slowly sway, Louis looking anywhere but at them.

After a moment, Niall tentatively lets go of them and Harry does his best at _trying_ to make them turn in a circle and is about to give up and call it a night when Louis winks at him, moving the hand Harry has on his waist up to his shoulder and vice versa so that he’s the one leading. Harry has absolutely no time to be confused because Louis is pulling him along to chase Niall around the stage without actually letting go of him, loud laughs leaving his mouth that resonate across the room.

They chase Niall until he’s forced to run off the stage but instead of stopping, they just keep twirling around the place until they’re both breathless and their faces are flushed but they’ve both got blinding grins on their faces and this is the happiest Harry has felt in _years_.

Louis abruptly puts both of his hands on Harry’s waist and suddenly he’s lifting him up in a circle as if he weighed nothing. Harry lets out a surprised yelp but then they’re back to dancing and he only has time to wonder how they’re not tired yet.

“This is nothing! We’ve only just begun!” Niall appears and pulls Harry away from Louis, who looks at them with a sheepish smile and runs a hand through his hair. “Polka dance, darling!”

They dance around the stage once, kicking their legs in the air and both laughing too hard to do it properly, and Harry hears Louis howl with laughter and clap his hands along to an imaginary rhythm. He pulls out a chair and places it in the middle of the stage, helping a breathless Harry stand on it. Harry feels his hair sticking to the back of his neck with sweat and the thought of cutting it flashes through his mind briefly but it quickly disappears when he looks down and finds that the other two men are looking up at him and trying to catch their breath, both equally as sweaty as him but equally looking as happy as he feels.

He takes a deep breath and holds his hands out to count on his fingers as he begins talking, “The caviar and the stroganoff are both irrelevant and completely disgusting. Sergei had a feathered hat, my cousin was a drunk, the duke was short and _someone_ had a wart. ‘My’ horse’s name was Romeo so tell me somethin’ new!”

Niall lets out a surprised laugh and shakes his head in amazement, putting his hands on his hips. “My god, kid. You learned to do it. _Très bien, monsieur. Très bien.”_

_“Merci, monsieur,”_ Harry replies instantly, using Louis’ shoulder to help him hop off the chair.

_“Vous parlez français?”_ Niall asks, his eyebrows furrowed. 

_“Un peu,”_ he says slowly, confused because he’s never spoken French in his damn life. He turns on his heel and walks to the board, pretending to study it.

“What were you telling him?” he hears Louis ask Niall and smiles to himself at the uncertainty in Louis’ voice.

“Oh! The aristocrats all spoke French. Russian was for the common people like you, Louis,” Niall answers, moving to stand by Harry and whispers loudly, “You get to sleep on the sack of lentils tonight, Haz; you’ve earned it. _Bonne nuit, mon ami._ We’ll continue tomorrow!”

Harry watches with a smile as he walks to the backstage area, happily humming to himself.

“In Russian this time,” Louis snaps as he shoves Harry’s coat to his chest. _“For the common man.”_

Harry hugs his coat close and listens to Louis’ stomping feet as he follows Niall’s steps and slowly walks to the front of the stage, glancing around the destroyed theatre.

_“You were born in a palace by the sea,”_ he whispers, repeating Niall’s words as the first photograph in the album appears in his mind. “Could it really be?”

 

***＊✿❀　❀✿＊***

 

Harry doesn’t remember to tell Louis about Karina’s beans until he’s getting comfortable on the sack of lentils, Niall’s snores lulling him to sleep.

 

*＊✿❀　❀✿＊*

 

**_Департамент полиции России, Ленинград_ **

Officer Malik stands in front of his desk, holding his phone’s transmitter close to his mouth and the earphone on his ear with the other one. He leans against the corner of the desk, a small smile on his face.

“Thank you, sir!” he says after the colonel congratulates him on _finally_ putting a stop to Tomlinson’s stupidity. “Your confidence in me will certainly pay off; an office with tall windows and view of the Nevsky Prospect, a Russian telephone that actually works…” he laughs loudly but the colonel just huffs loudly in response and he just straightens his back and clears his throat. “That — that was a joke. I’m sorry, sir. We have _marvellous_ telephones, sir!”

An officer knocks on the door once and walks into the office, his hands behind his back. “Sir, he’s here.”

Malik nods, winces at the trail of melting snow the officer leaves on the floor and looks out the window. “Well, sir. Our _troublemaker_ has been found. I will call you as soon as we have any information.”

He hears the boy shuffle backwards a little and ignores it, instead choosing to spread his arms and stand in front of the window, watching the people below. “It’s a beautiful city, isn’t it? Our Leningrad. All our people creating a future for themselves! And for us! But… sometimes I wonder why there are _always_ some bad apples trying to ruin it for everyone else! I can see all the way to the Yusupov Palace from here, you know? There’s some funny business going on there.”

“Why was I brought here?” the boy finally asks, his voice shaking when he does and… that voice sounds so familiar.

_“I hoped you could tell me, comrade!”_ Malik yells and turns toward the voice, stopping short when he’s met by a familiar pair of jade eyes. “You. The-the-the… the frightened little street sweeper! You’ve stopped shaking, I see. That’s good. I… I almost stopped looking for you, y’know. Harry, am I right?”

“Yes,” Harry answers nervously, reaching up to push a stray curl that keeps falling over his eyes behind his ear.

“I am Deputy Commissioner Zayn Malik.” he holds out a hand and waits for a second before slowly putting it behind his back.. “It’s the uniform and the office; they usually give people the wrong impression. I’m really not so bad.”

Zayn cracks a small smile, eyes searching Harry’s face for some kind of reaction, but his eyes are dull and scared and there isn’t even a hint of a smile. Harry just stares at him, trembling fists resting on his thighs, and he sighs. He steps closer to the terrified boy and holds his hand out one more time, expecting Harry to reject him again, but then he smiles faintly and slowly brings his hand up and shakes Zayn’s firmly.

“You’re shivering again,” he notices and turns towards his desk where a small metal kettle rests. “I’m sure a warm cup of tea will warm us up both.”

“What is the charge?” Harry hesitantly asks as he follows after him, fiddling with the hem of his torn coat.

“There is _no_ charge,” Zayn answers happily then swiftly turns around, a dark eyebrow raised. “Why should there be one? You have a job, your own place, food on the table; just like everybody else.”

“And I am very thankful,” Harry says slowly, scratching at the short blond stubble coating his cheeks.

“Which is exactly why I am _advising_ you to let go of your other life before it is too late.” Harry stares at him, green eyes unblinking as he cocks his head to the side curiously. “If you _really_ were whom you’re pretending to be, they would kill you immediately.”

“Everyone is always pretending to be somebody else. This is completely innocent.”

“No, Harry. It’s dangerous and you know it. _All_ the Romanovs are gone. My father made sure of it,” Zayn whispers that last part, watching as Harry’s mouth twists into a small scowl.

“I don’t have to listen to this,” he hisses and jumps to his feet, the chair making a loud scraping noise against the floor.

“He was told to fire. He was just obeying orders,” Zayn explains. Harry’s shoulders drop and he slowly sits back down, nervously nibbling on his chapped bottom lip. “I need you to be careful about what you say and do out there, Harry.”

He takes a deep breath and moves to stand by the window once more, the morning sun making the snow on the ground below glimmer he begins telling his story.

It had been the day before his eighteenth birthday — January 11th, 1917 — when his father walked out of their house in the middle of the night, a black gun strapped to his belt. Zayn had followed his father quietly, hiding in the shadows until they arrived at the Winter Palace. The street was quiet, covered in fresh snow and unlit but the interior of the palace was filled with laughter and lit lamps brightening the rooms inside that the frozen Neva River reflected back to him, the teal walls rippling slightly in the parts that weren’t frozen.

The laughter, though, was soon replaced with terrified screams and loud gunshots that have never left his memory. When he crept closer, he could see the children being led out of the palace by the guards, the three girls gripping each others’ hands, their shoulders shaking as loud sobs left their mouths while the oldest boy carried the sick one in his arms, his chin raised high with pride as the Tsar and his wife followed close by, the diamonds sewn into their clothes shining under the moonlight.

The last thing he ever saw before the guards closed the gates was his father standing at the top of the stairs, his gun held firmly in his hand.

“I heard the guns being fired. I heard the girls screaming,” Zayn whispers, shutting his eyes as the memory of him pressing the heels of his hands against ears so hard the bruises didn’t fade for a week. “But the one thing that will haunt me until the day I die will be the silence that came after.”

The room is completely quiet except for Harry’s foot nervously tapping on the floor, but Zayn knows he’s listening. “When he came home, it was almost sunrise but he just shook his head and told me not to ask. My mother told everyone who would listen that he died of shame, but I have always believed he did what someone must’ve done a very long time ago — save Russia. And because of him, a new wind is blowing.”

“And soon it will be spring.” Harry sounds unusually surprised, but he just stands up a second after and takes a step toward him. “Thank you, comrade.”

Zayn turns to look at him, a gentle smile on his face. “Please. It’s just Zayn.”

“If you say so.” he copies his smile but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Zayn chooses to ignore it. “Thank you, Zayn.”

He makes a move to exit the room but Zayn is quick to tightly wrap his fingers around Harry’s bony wrist. “As your newly-found friend, Harry, be careful.”

“I’m… going to be late for work.”

“However, as Deputy Commissioner Zayn Malik, be very, _very_ careful.”

 

*＊✿❀　❀✿＊*

 

**_Храм Спаса на Крови, Ленинград_ **

Harry grips the broom in his trembling hands as he sweeps the snowy streets, not even the scratchy wool gloves covering them being able to stop it. A million different thoughts run through his head at the same time — the lessons Niall and Louis have been giving him for the past month, having to hide in Yusupov Palace with no way of getting warm except for their own body warmth and the tattered clothes on their backs but at the top of the list, the conversation he had with Officer Malik — Zayn — right before work this morning.

Just the thought of it makes his stomach clench with fear, so he tries to push it away as fast as he can for the time being and focuses on what he had learned the day before.

Feliks — or, well, Harry — used to have three sisters; Olga, the oldest, Tatiana and Maria, the youngest girl but still older than Feliks, and one younger brother called Alexei.

Niall then showed him a faded picture right before going to sleep — it showed three young girls standing next to each other and two younger boys sitting on the floor in front of the girls, their faces equally stone cold and all of them wearing the same white ruffled clothes. Even though the picture was in black and white, Harry could see that — surprisingly — Feliks and one of the girls had light hair while all the others had extremely dark hair.

“That’s Olga,” Niall pointed the tall girl with kind eyes and curled hair standing in the middle of the group, then to the one standing on her right. Her hand was resting on Feliks’ shoulder and her hair was braided over her shoulder. “That one right there is Tatiana. She and Feliks had quite the relationship but Feliks and Maria — she’s the one with light hair and looks like she could ruin your life — were the ones that got along best. I swear those two spent all their free time playing jokes on everyone that happened to be in the palace.”

Harry glanced up at Niall curiously when the man chuckled and shook his head fondly as if remembering it like it was yesterday.

“You talk about them like you knew them,” Harry said, his fingers absentmindedly trying to smooth out the wrinkled corner.

“Well, you know.” Niall had just shrugged and Harry wanted to say _‘no! I don’t fucking know anything!’_ but then there was a loud crash behind them and Niall just sighed, let Harry keep the picture and left.

He’d spent most of the night looking at the picture, his fingers repeatedly tracing the words scribbled on the margin in Niall’s messy handwriting. _Великая княгиня Мария Николаевна, Великая княгиня Татьяна, Великая княгиня Ольга, Чезаревич Феликс Николаевич и Алексей Царевич Романов ~ Петергофский дворец, 1907._

“Grand Duchess Maria Nikolaevna, Grand Duchess Tatiana Nikolaevna, Grand Duchess Olga Nikolaevna, Tsesarevich Feliks Nikolaevich and Tsarevich Alexei Nikolaevich Romanov. Peterhof Palace, nineteen oh seven,” he whispers to himself as he continues sweeping. Behind him, the Church of The Saviour on Spilled Blood stands in all its colourful glory, small snowflakes falling from the sky and onto the golden and green and blue rooftops.

“Good morning, comrade!” someone yells in his ear. He drops his broom in surprise and spins on his heel to face the person, his heart racing in his chest as he raises his fist in the air. “Hey, calm down! It’s just me!”

“You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that, Louis! Especially now!” Harry snaps, making sure to put all of his anger into his glare before bending down to pick up the fallen broom. 

“I’m sorry.” Louis puts his hands up but if by the way he’s smirking is anything to go by, he’s trying very hard not to laugh his ass off. “What’s gotten your panties in a twist?”

“None of your business,” Harry mutters. He falters for a second, biting his lip, then decides that telling Louis about this morning is probably the best idea. “Well, actually… _Officermalikcalledmeintohisofficetoday.”_

“ _What?_ ”

“I…” Harry lets out a slow sigh. “I had to go to Officer Malik’s office today.”

“What the fuck!” Louis’ eyes get comically large and Harry thinks he would laugh if it weren’t for the fact that Louis has grabbed his arm and is dragging him to an empty alley and that he has lost his broom — again. “What’d he want?”

“He knows where we’re living,” Harry says quietly, hiding his shaking hands in his pockets. “He knows what we’re doing; he probably knows what our plans are.”

Louis leans his shoulder against his brick wall, gnawing on his lip nervously as he lets Harry’s words sink in. He fixes the bag strapped across his chest and opens his mouth to say something when —

“Well, if it ain’t the Prince of Petersburg ‘imself!”

Two men at the other end of the alley stumble drunkenly toward Harry and Louis, both of them holding an almost-empty bottle of vodka in their hands, and Louis turns to them with a scowl on his face.

“What do you _want,_ Lucas?”

When the men get closer, Louis’ back visibly tenses and he squares his shoulders. The other man seems to notice Harry cowering behind Louis because he winks at him and sends him a crooked smirk.

“And it looks like he’s gotten ‘imself a boyfriend!” _Lucas_ cackles then stumbles a little.

“How’s he treatin’ ya, sweetheart?” the man who winked at him snickers but he takes a large step backwards when Louis steps in front of Harry in a protective manner.

“He is _not_ my boyfriend, Dmitry,” Louis says through gritted teeth. He reaches back blindly and grips the hem of Harry’s sleeve to tug him out but as soon as they turn their backs to the men, one of them — _Dmitry_ — wraps his sticky fingers around Harry’s wrist and pulls him back to him.

“Wanna go to Paris with me instead, _ma chérie?”_

“Come ‘ave a drink with us, Louis! It’s been too long!”

“Louis, let’s go,” Harry whispers, averting his eyes from the smirking men and shrugs Dmitry’s hand off his shoulder, stepping back behind Louis. “I really don’t like these people.”

“If you don’t want him, Tomlinson, I’ll take him! C’mon, sweetheart.” Dmitry takes Harry’s hand again and pulls on it, causing Harry to stumble towards him and Louis to let go of his sleeve. 

“Leave him alone!” Louis pushes Dmitry’s chest with the heels of his hands but Dmitry doesn’t take long to recover from the push and swing a fist at his head.

Harry sneers at Lucas and kicks at the part between his legs as hard as he can, then waits until Lucas is doubled over to wrap an arm around his middle and punch his side with his other hand. When he pauses and checks up on Louis, his chest heaving and his hair sticking to his face, Louis is doubled over and both his arms are wrapped around his stomach as Dmitry continuously punches his side. Something that strangely feels like rage washes over Harry and his knuckles crack quietly as he wiggles his fingers and he waits for a moment before throwing himself on top of Dmitry, his teeth rattling the moment their bodies hit the floor.

Dmitry looks at him with fear in his wide eyes and Harry raises his hand, but he feels Louis grab it and pull him off as easily as when he lifted Harry and spun him around that one night.

“Harry, calm down. Punching him will just get you in even more trouble,” Louis murmurs, wrapping his arms around Harry’s middle when he tries to go for the man on the floor again.

“Next time I won’t go so easy on you!” he yells after Dmitry and Lucas as they scramble away. He smirks, satisfied, and brushes the snow and dirt off his — already dirty — clothes.

“ _Where_ did you learn to do all that? You’re quite good,” Louis comments as they exit the alley to retrieve Harry’s broom.

“You can’t walk halfway across Russia without learning how to defend yourself.” Harry shrugs and uses the red ribbon he just found in his pocket to tie his hair back into a sweaty ponytail. “You’ve had it much easier than I have.”

“I really haven’t,” Louis answers after a beat, sitting on a bench on the bridge over the _Griboedov_ Canal. “My dad died in a labour camp for being an anarchist when I was younger; I don’t really remember him. I used to have two sisters — Charlotte and Félicité — but my mum and they died in ‘13.”

“I’m sorry.” Harry’s voice is soft when he sits down next to him. “Who raised you, then?”

“No one; I raised myself.” Louis shrugs and pulls his bag over his head, letting it fall on his lap. “I’ve been on my own since I was 14, y’know. I’ve learned how to steal to eat and not freeze to death and to use my head. Everyone knows that a Russian rat has to be clever or he’ll end up dead.

“It all just boils down to the fact that there are people in this world who survive, people that don’t, and people who give up or simply give in to the system, but me…”

He’s quiet for a few seconds and Harry wants to ask _‘what? What about you?’_ when he suddenly climbs on the bench.

“C’mon, Harry. I want to show you something.” he holds out a gloved hand and Harry tentatively takes it, feeling surprised at how warm it is as he carefully steps up onto the bench, warily eyeing the frozen canal in front of them. Louis points to the small but busy market hidden in a wide alley — something Harry would’ve probably never seen if he weren’t standing up here. 

“That’s where you go where you need something done, but it _always_ comes with a price; it’s the first thing they tell you. ‘S where I learned most of the things I know today.

“In this city, you can do what you’re told, or you can go where they tell you to go, but my mum always told me to see what’s ahead. And right now, all I can see is you getting to Paris and finally meeting your family, Harry.”

“Thank you, Louis,” Harry says quietly and bums his shoulder against his carefully. He’s known him for almost a month now, but he already knows how much Louis _despises_ talking about anything that has to do with his past.

“So. Welcome to my Petersburg,” Louis spreads his arms and smiles faintly, his eyes crinkling at the sides. “My mum used to bring me here. She’d pick me up so I could stand on the railing and she’d hold me so I wouldn’t fall and she’d say ‘I bet you can see all the way to Finland, Lou!’”

Harry snorts, unable to imagine anyone calling Louis anything other than his name and him being okay with it. “Lou?”

“That’s what she called me until her last day… There isn’t a day I don’t miss her.”

“So neither of us has a family,” Harry whispers, then immediately bites down on his lip, heat rising to his face. 

“We don’t know that yet. The answer is in Paris.” they look up at the same time, jade meeting ocean blue, and Harry feels his stomach drop. He instantly looks away.

“I’m not as strong as you think I am.”

“Put your hand out,” Louis says after a moment of silence.

“What?” Harry shoots him a puzzled look.

“Just close your eyes and put your damn hand out,” Louis snaps with no actual bite in his voice and Harry huffs childishly but does eventually put his hand out, wiggling his fingers impatiently. He is about to open his eyes to see what the _hell_ Louis is doing when he feels something heavy, cold and hard on his outstretched palm. “Open. You’ve earned it.”

“What is this?” he asks, bringing the object closer to his face to inspect.

“It’s a music box.”

“It’s beautiful.” And it is.

Under all the rust and all the dust it has  gathered through the years, the music box is made out of what looks like gold. It has a curved F engraved on a small button — that Harry _obviously_ presses on repeatedly, but nothing happens — and small differently-coloured jewels that glint in the sunlight when Harry moves it have been carefully placed along the edge.

“It’s broken.” Louis sheepishly shrugs his shoulders.

Harry’s heart hammers in his chest as he slowly turns the music box upside down in his hands and finds a small wind up key on the bottom. He turns it back around and holds it with one hand, hesitantly winding up the key with the other. When he presses the button after turning the key twice, the lid cracks open with a loud click.

“How did you do that?” Louis asks quietly, amazed, and takes a step closer.

Ignoring him, Harry pulls the lid up as carefully as he can and reveals a small ceramic couple dressed in a faded white suit and a red ball gown that reaches her feet that hold each other as they dance around the inside of the music box.

A familiar tune reaches his ears and he can hear Louis calling his name but suddenly it’s like his ears have been stuffed with cotton balls. He can see the world around him fading so fast his head feels like it’s going to explode at any moment, so he squeezes his eyes shut and holds the music box close to his chest.

When he blinks them open, he’s not in Leningrad anymore.

He’s in a grand golden ballroom with tall windows that reach the ceiling — or, the narrow balconies acting like a second floor where people dressed in fancy suits and gowns that glitter under the light coming from the bronze chandelier hanging from the ceiling laugh and drink champagne.

He looks around, fear rising in his chest, and finds that the couples dancing around him are all surrounded by soft purple auras. They don’t seem to notice him, however, when he carefully pushes past them and just continue dancing.

There’s a band in the room somewhere playing the same tune the music box in Harry’s hands is still playing, but it’s so quiet that it almost sounds like it’s being whispered into his ear.

When he gets closer to the sound, he catches his reflection on one of the windows and lets out a loud gasp when he realises he’s not wearing the tattered, ripped clothes he has been wearing his entire life but instead a smooth white uniform coat that is held by medium-sized golden buttons, a pair of white pants that stop when they reach his ankles and there’s a purple sash made out of silk over his shoulder and his hair has been tied back into a neat bun on the back of his head by a purple ribbon. 

Harry turns his head toward the band when they briefly stop playing and when he looks back to the window, he finds that it’s just not him on the glass and there’s a much shorter boy standing next to him, his hair a few shades darker than Harry’s — curlier and shorter, too, but his face looks so blurry Harry can’t make anything out. The boy is wearing an identical set of clothes to his — for the exception of the sash across his chest, which is sky blue. He tilts his head in a playful when Harry checks to see if the boy is actually standing next to him and looks back at the boy with wide eyes, a million questions running through his head.

The boy disappears into thin air when someone close to them lets out a loud laugh and he toward the sound, his eyes falling on three girls dressed in identical pink dresses and curls pinned back, the small crowns on their heads glinting when they lean in to giggle about whatever it is they’re laughing about.

He takes a tentative step forward, one of the girls immediately looking up at him and he has to hold himself back from running away to _wherever_ when he sees that… she has no face, just like the boy in the window. 

She seems to recognise him, though, because she gently touches the other girls’ wrists and they turn to look at him, their faces as equally as blurry.

The three girls’ lilac auras shake a little as they take off running toward Harry and he stumbles back when they throw their freezing arms around him. He feels the music box slipping from his hands but he rapidly tightens his fingers around him as he slowly and hesitantly wraps his arms around the girls who are now crying into his shoulders and chest. They tighten their arms around him and he gives them a gentle but tight squeeze, letting out a deep breath he couldn't remember holding. The embrace makes Harry feel much safer and it gives him a sort of warmth he doesn’t think he’s ever experienced before.

Outside of the ballroom, snow is falling so hard it looks silver from where Harry is standing and before he knows it, every single purple aura in the room quickly changes colour to match the snow and the band slowly stops playing. The only sound in the room is the soft melody coming from the music box but that, too, is getting quieter every second that passes. 

The girls slowly step back from Harry’s arms and when he looks around, he realises they’re the only ones left in the room. Everything looks like a faint silver curtain fell from the ceiling and covered the entire ballroom, making it look sombre and mournful. 

“Where are you going?” Harry asks desperately. His voice sounds higher — more childish, too — and for some reason, he’s speaking in French. It feels strange in his mouth. He stretches an arm out toward them, the emptiness in his heart coming back in a flash. “Please don’t leave me!”

“Come back to us,” the girl in the middle whispers and reaches up to touch a crimson drop of blood on her forehead that was _definitely_ not there a minute ago. When she takes her hand away, completely unbothered to fix her auburn hair, her delicate fingers are covered in scarlet and there’s a perfectly round hole in the middle of her forehead.

“Please, _Феля,”_ the blonde girl on the right wheezes quietly, blood seeping through her fingers as she grips at the place where her heart should be, the liquid staining the pale pink fabric a bright red.

“We miss you,” the third girl murmurs, this time in Russian, and wraps her arm around her middle where a red stain spreads across her stomach, covering it in blood.

Horrified, Harry steps forward and looks between the bleeding girls with wide eyes, his bottom lip trembling as he tries to figure out how to stop the bleeding — how to do _anything_ to help them, but he realises the music box has slipped from his hands a second too late, and when he spins to catch it, the artefact has broken into a million little pieces.

“No!” he cries as he kneels on the floor, completely forgetting the fact that he’s wearing _white_ pants and tries to pick up as many pieces as he can and slip them into his pocket.

He turns back to face the girls, frustrated tears welling up in his eyes as he looks around the room desperately, trying to find them and finding absolutely no trace of them left. He lets out a shaky sigh, a hot tear running down his cheeks as he squeezes his eyes shut.

When he blinks them open, he’s back on the bridge, the air around him is freezing cold and blowing strands of hair into his face and Louis is still standing in front of him, an eyebrow raised curiously as if absolutely nothing just happened.

“So. How soon do you think we can leave? I’ve heard trains keep getting cancelled all the time.” Harry clears his throat and reaches into his pocket with his free hand, handing Louis a small bag full of jingling coins. “I… I’ve been working extra shifts these last couple of weeks; it’s not much, but…”

“Harry, we’re not even close to what we need to get the hell out of here.”

“What are you saying?” he furrows his eyebrows, his heart suddenly feeling extremely heavy.

“I thought I could get us out of the country but. They’re closing all the borders for good this week,” Louis says quietly, glancing down at his shuffling feet.

“You were the only hope I had, Louis!” Harry cries, outraged. He can feel his hands starting to shake and he bites down on his lip as soon as he feels the tears welling up in his eyes.

“Well, I’m sorry!” Louis yells, trying to give him his money back. “I’m sure somebody else can help you.”

“I do _not_ want your money, Tomlinson,” he huffs, stubbornly shaking his head.

“It’s _your_ money, Harry.” Louis grabs his  wrist but he quickly pries Louis’ fingers off.

“It’s _our_ money. I thought I could trust you.”

“I said I’m sorry!” Louis throws his hands in the air and shakes his head. “Jesus, Harry.”

“I didn’t trust you enough,” Harry whispers quietly, then lets out a long sigh. “Put your hand out and close your eyes.”

Louis looks at him, his blue eyes wide with confusion, and Harry rolls his, leaning forward to tug Louis’ hand to him and outstretch his palm.

“You’re one of the stubbornest people I have ever met, Louis Tomlinson. You’re _almost_ as stubborn as I am,” he mutters, a small smile tugging at his lips as he waits for Louis to close his eyes. Harry takes a moment to engrave into his memory the way Louis’ eyelashes cast soft shadows onto his cheekbones before tugging the thin thread hanging around his neck over his head and carefully placing it on Louis’ hand. 

He watches as Louis brings the small translucent diamond close to his face, his eyes and mouth so wide it makes him hold back a chuckle and glance around to make sure nobody’s watching them. No one is; they’re all busy huddling together in the squares to continue gossiping about Prince Feliks’ survival.

“It’s a diamond!” Louis exclaims before remembering where they are and quickly clamps his mouth shut.

“One of the nurses found it sewn in my underwear they day they found me,” Harry explains quietly and sits back on the bench, crossing his ankles together and motioning to Louis to do the same. “She kept it a secret until the day I left; I don’t know why, though. She told me to not tell a soul and make sure that I had someone I trusted before telling them about it.”

“You’ve had it _all_ this time and you didn’t tell me?” Louis asks in disbelief, looking at him with so much disappointment in his eyes it makes his heart hurt.

“Er… yes?”

“What the fuck?! Why?” Louis runs a hand through his already-dishevelled hair, the other hand holding onto the diamond as if his life depended on it — which, considering the circumstances, it does.

“It’s the only thing I have!” Harry defends himself weakly. “I have nothing without it, you have to understand.”

Louis is quiet for a longer time than Harry would’ve liked but then he looks at him, an eyebrow arched. “How do you know I won’t take this and run away and you’ll never see me again?”

And — he has a pretty good point right there, Harry supposes. “Because… I think deep, _very_ deep down you’re a good person?”

“Fuck, H. If you weren’t my only way out I would…” Louis just shakes his head and huffs out a laugh, a grin spreading over his face as he throws himself at Harry and presses a quick kiss to each cheek, his arms tightly circling his waist.

Harry slowly wraps an arm around his shoulders and gives him a slow, awkward pat on the back. A moment later, he watches as a running figure makes their way to a still-hugging Harry and Louis and when he squints his eyes to figure out who it is, he quickly steps back from their embrace and carefully pockets the music box.

“We have a really serious problem!” Niall says breathlessly, a small bead of sweat trickling down the side of his face. His glasses are perched on the top of his head but he doesn’t seem to notice them when he runs a hand through his hair. “The Yusupov Palace was raided this morning and we are _dead_ if we go back and—”

Louis holds the diamond in front of Niall’s eyes with his thumb and forefinger to stop his rambling and they go wide slowly, his eyebrows raised so high they’re almost disappearing into his hair. _“Jesus Christ.”_

“He’s had it all this time and he didn’t tell us!” Louis laughs, but whether it is in delight or in shock, Harry doesn’t know.

“I didn’t know if I could trust the two of you!” he giggles quietly at the way Niall presses his hand to his sweaty forehead.

“You are _absolutely_ right, Haz,” Niall agrees and Harry’s heart goes warm at the nickname. “I wouldn’t trust anyone with _that,_ either.”

“D’you think that’ll be enough for us to get the exit papers?” he asks hopefully and bites down on his bottom lip, dreading the answer.

_“Enough?!”_ Niall asks, shocked, as he snatched the diamond out of Louis’ outstretched palm and puts it in one of the pockets on the inside of his coat. “Sweetheart, this is everything we ever needed and so much more; I love you, Harry.”

“There’s a train leaving at midnight from the Finland station!” he remembers seeing the small flyer stuck to a pole near the palace one morning.

“Of course! I’ll go get the papers right now and we will meet at the station at eleven,” Niall says happily, running down the bridge with the biggest grin on his face.

Harry turns to run the opposite way, excitement bubbling in his chest, but Louis quickly stops him by putting a hand on his arm.

“Wait, where are you going?”

“They owe me a week’s wages and everything we can get right now counts!” he replies and jogs down the other side of the bridge, tilting his head back to let out a loud laugh when he hears Louis yell something about sleeping in a hotel and take a bath in a _real_ bathtub.

 

*＊✿❀　❀✿＊*

 

**_Станция Санкт-Петербург-Финля́ндский, Ленинград_ **

Harry follows Niall and Louis into the crowded station the moment an announcement crackles through the small speaker on the brick wall. People all around them speak in hushed voices, holding onto their cases and families so tightly, knowing that they’re never coming back after they leave.

They stop next to a heavily pregnant woman with a pale young boy on her hip, both of them dressed in warm-looking clothes made of black fur and Harry sends her a small smile, not expecting to get one back at all but when the boy grins toothily at him, Harry wiggles his fingers instead of waving and feels warmth spread over his chest at the fact that he _knows_ that at least the boy will have a good life once he gets out of this terrible country.

“It’s a special train,” Niall says quietly over the sound of shoes clicking against the marble floor, pulling Harry from his thoughts. “Aristocrats and anyone who’s smart enough to stand up to the Bolsheviks are the ones they’re getting rid of. _We_ are travelling as members of the _Diaghilev Ballet Russe;_ they’ve taken Paris by storm.”

He pulls out two pieces of paper from his coat and hands one to a grim-looking Louis but before he can give the other one to Harry, a man dressed all in black approaches them silently and gets down on one knee in front of a stunned Harry.

“God bless you,” he whispers, letting go of his cane and suitcase to take Harry’s hand in his gloved one and give it a small squeeze. He stands up without saying another word after collecting his belongings and gives Niall and Louis a curt nod and when he’s gone, Harry can hear everyone all around them whispering about it but it’s all muffled by the sound of blood rushing through his ears and his heart beating so fast he’s afraid it’s gonna burst out of his chest.

The way the man had looked up at him through his spectacles — pain and sorrow obvious in his dark eyes, the corners of his mouth turned down under the neatly-trimmed moustache — will be an image that will never be erased from his mind.

“I know him,” Niall murmurs in shock. “His name is Count Ipolitov. He is an aristocrat _and_ an intellectual; he’s a dead man on both ends.”

The whistle of a train resonates through the station a moment later and everybody’s heads turn towards the sound at the same time, the tension in the place rising immediately as the situation actually sinks in slowly.

“We should go,” Louis whispers, his voice cracking slightly, and almost gets drowned out by the sound of people hesitantly shuffling onto the train and the ones holding onto their loved ones so tightly like they will be able to bring them onto the train.

Louis and Niall start to follow the crowd but instead of going with them, Harry stays rooted down to his spot, his eyes looking around the place to try and take in as much as he can for the last time in his life.

And even though he wants — no, he _needs_ — to leave, he can’t find it in his heart to say goodbye to everything he has ever known since he can remember without breaking down crying in the middle of the place.

Outside, he can hear coaches whipping the whining horses that won’t quiet down, almost as if they were calling to the people getting into trains, _‘Stay! Please, I beg you.’_ Around him, people sniffle loudly and let warm tears fall down their frozen cheeks as they say their final goodbyes, and he likes to think that while everyone in the station shares the same scars, has been through the same thing, somewhere in their heart they all know Russia will forever be their home.

As Harry makes his way to the still-whistling train, holding his old case close to him, the reality of what he’s doing finally hits him and he loses his breath for a second; once he gets on that train, he will leave and he will never come back — but he will finally be _free_.

Freedom.

He doesn’t know what that feels like — he has no idea what it’s like to walk outside and not be scared that officers dressed in beige will grab his arms and drag him to a dark place where he’ll never know if he’s going to live or die or if they’ll just leave him to rot and he has never known anything else but _this_.

He’s the last one to get on the train and he stands on the small metal steps for a moment and before the door is closed, he gets his one last glimpse of Russia, of his homeland, and glances at the people gathered in the station with tattered clothes on their backs and tears that won’t stop falling down their cheeks but with _hope_ in their eyes — hope for a new and a better spring — and Harry closes his eyes, one single tear streaming down his cheek and stopping in the tip of his red nose, and sends each and every person in front of him a silent prayer for a happier day.

“I’ll bless my homeland ‘til I die,” he whispers to himself, the door in front of him closing with a loud _click._

He turns on his heel as the train starts to move and wobbly walks along the small space between the red benches where the passengers are seated until he finds Louis and Niall sitting on the front row, quietly chattering to each other. When Niall looks up and spots him, he simply sends him a watery smile and pushes a grumbling Louis against the wall to make space for Harry.

“Hi,” he murmurs, settling down next to Niall with a quiet sniff, but if the older man notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“This is ridiculous!” Niall exclaims after half an hour, swivelling around to glare at a baby that hasn’t stopped crying since they left the station from behind his glasses. “I paid for first class; we should be drinking champagne by now.”

“There’s no first class anymore,” Louis murmurs sleepily, loudly huffing as he gets pushed against the wall for the second time when they move to make space for a stout man to sit next to them. “Everyone is _equal_ now.”

Harry ignores the man’s strong smell of smoke and instead looks out the window Louis is sitting next to, watching as trees covered in thick snow and small houses made out of wood fly by.

The man pulls out a dark cigar from his pocket and lights it, the smoke of it blowing right into Harry’s face, causing him to cover his face with his elbow and cough loudly, Niall patting his back absentmindedly. After seeing that the stranger sitting next to him does _not_ give a damn about Harry’s health, he straightens his back, tucks his hair behind his ears and stares down at the man, his mouth set into a deep scowl.

“How _dare_ you smoke in front of me without my permission?” Harry hisses, the man turning to him slowly with the cigar held tightly between his teeth and his eyebrows raised high.

“And who the _hell_ do you think you are?” he scoffs loudly, waving a hand dismissively as if to say _‘Stupid boy’._

“I am the Tsesarevich Feliks Romanov!” Harry yells and immediately feels Niall and Louis react to his words so fast they almost fall off the bench.

The people around him flick their eyes up from their books and newspapers and burst out laughing, their judging stares provoking he face to turn a deep, warm scarlet. 

“There’s a madman on this train!” the man exclaims as he grabs his case and hat and moves to a bench far away from Harry’s, sitting next to a chuckling couple who murmur something to him and shake their heads in disbelief.

“You have to _warn_ us before doing that!” Louis whisper-shouts, waving his hands around. 

“I’m sorry!” Harry nibbles on his lip nervously and runs a hand through his tangled hair. “I just wanted to see what it’d feel like saying I was him!”

“It’s a _long_ trip, Haz; you’ll have plenty of time to practice,” Niall says, patting Harry’s knee reassuringly. “Now, the first thing we _have_ to do when we get to Paris is win over the Dowager Empress’ gentleman-in-waiting, Count Liam Payne. No one even _breathes_ close to her majesty without getting through him.”

“He sounds horrible,” Louis mutters, raising his eyebrows.

“Quite the opposite,” Niall chuckles, leaning back against the bench. “Liam was tall, straight and married — everything I look for in a man. He even gave me a watch studded with diamonds at some point, too.”

“Did you love him?” Harry asks softly and watches as the crooked grin on Niall’s face turns into a fond, faint smile for less than a second and then goes back to a wide smirk.

“Madly, sweetheart. But I definitely loved the watch more.”

“What happened to it?” Louis asks curiously as Harry rolls his eyes at Niall’s response and playfully pushes his shoulder.

“It’s gone, Lou, along with the old Russia. Just like everything else.” he shrugs and looks down, silently tugging on a loose piece of skin hanging from his thumb. He almost looks… nervous, Harry notices in surprise, because the Niall he knows is always calm and collected when he’s fixing whatever Louis or Harry have done. “I hope Liam is happy to see me.”

“Oh, come on!” Louis shakes his head, grinning brightly as he ruffles Niall’s brown hair. “Be honest. Why would he not be, Horan?”

“I’ve gotten fat and old,” he murmurs and Harry and Louis share an incredulous look over his head, trying not to laugh. Harry scoffs fondly and wraps an arm around his bony shoulders.

“Niall, don’t be so dramatic.” he squeezes Niall’s body tightly, rubbing his arm. “You’re what — almost 40?”

“Excuse me!” Niall cries, earning a few glares from most of the other passengers, but he ignores them and instead pushes Harry away with a smile on his face and places his hand over his chest dramatically. “I turn 34 this year, thank you very much.”

“Oi, d’you think we could stop fighting over whether Niall’s old or not and actually talk about what we’ll do if Payne says no and kicks us out?” Louis asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

“We’ll just… lay low and go from there,” Niall answers before closing his eyes and slinging an arm over their shoulders, smiling when Louis huffs loudly and kicks his shin.

“Please, we all know Payne’ll see what he’s been missing after Niall takes him out for dinner and some wine,” Harry sing-songs teasingly as he stands up, his knees cracking loudly, and shoves his shaking hands into his pocket.

As he walks to one of the windows and watches the thousands and thousands of snow-covered trees and roads, a million thoughts run through his head but all he can focus on is how all he’s been good at so far is being an absolute and total royal _mess_ . He leans his forehead against the frozen pane, closes his eyes and wonders for the millionth time why in the _hell_ he agreed to this. A small voice in the back of his head is quick to remind him that this is the only chance he’ll ever get of finding out who he is.

_Take a deep breath and keep a tight grip, Harry. Everything will be okay._

Someone appears by his side and he doesn’t have to open his eyes to know it’s Louis. Harry hears him sigh quietly and feels himself smile slightly, happy to know that at least he’s not the only one feeling unsure about all this.

“Lovely day, innit?” Louis asks and when Harry looks up, he’s startled at the closeness of the other man.

He hasn’t shaved in what seems to be a few weeks — granted, Harry hasn’t either, but in his defence, he doesn’t grow as much facial hair as Louis does — and his cheeks are covered in bronze-coloured hairs that shift a bit when he purses his lips. His eyes are darker today — a kind of dull, story blue instead of the bright colour Harry’s used to seeing every day, but he’s glad to see that the small wisps of silver are still there when the sunlight hits his eyes.

“Perfect for a lovely getaway,” Harry agrees softly and turns his body towards Louis’, leaning his shoulder against the wall. Louis smiles tightly at his joke but doesn’t comment on it and instead wraps his slim fingers around the strap of his satchel.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks after several beats of silence — all of which Harry spent trying to come up with something to say.

“I’m…” Harry sighs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Okay, I think? Bit scared. You?”

“I’m fuckin’ shitting myself,” Louis admits with an exasperated shake of his head, his fingers tightening around the strap. “I genuinely do not know how Niall is so fucking calm about this, but… I trust him with my life and like he said, if everything goes to shit—”

“We’ll go from there,” Harry interrupts, earning a quick glare and the faintest crack of a smile. “Everything will be okay, I promise.” _Hopefully._

“Do you ever just…” the question dies on Louis’ lips but after a furrow of his eyebrows, he looks up at Harry with confusion in his eyes. “Stop for a second and wonder why we agreed to this?”

Harry snorts at the irony and shakes his head. “Only since the moment we got on this train.”

Louis lets out an empty laugh and leads them both back to their bench where Niall is looking at them curiously, his eyebrows raised high.

“Everything okay?” he asks once they’re settled down and Louis has slung his satchel over his head and has his coat balled up and wedged between his neck and the wall to use as a pillow.

“We’re nearly out, aren’t we?” Harry asks instead, tugging the sleeves of his own coat over his knuckles.

“That we are! So we should probably start preparing for when we get there,” Niall says, leaning down to pull out a stack of wrinkled papers from Louis’ satchel.

Harry blocks his voice out the moment he starts talking and brings his hand up to his mouth to nervously nibble on his thumbnail, the words _we’ll go from there_ repeating themselves so much in his mind Harry’s sure they’re engraved on his brain.

The train is driving next to a frozen lake when it begins to slow down until it stops completely, the passengers lurching forward slightly in their seats. The doors in the back of the compartment are opened, letting the freezing air into the train.

“Papers!” two officers step in, their eyes stone cold as the passengers take out their papers with trembling hands to show to them.

An officer holding his hat under his arm stands next to a terrified Harry, startling him when he barks, “Show me your papers!” at them.

“Good morning,” Niall says smoothly as he shows him his, Harry and Louis’ exit papers. “Is there a problem, sir?”

“We’re looking for someone who is trying to illegally exit the country,” the officer answers. Harry chokes on his spit and immediately covers it as a cough, Niall gently patting his back.

“Didn’t have the right papers, is that it?” Niall jokes, his voice laced with faint worry that thankfully the officer doesn’t pick up on.

“No, he had the right papers, just had the wrong name; Count Ipolitov.”

A loud gunshot is heard a second later and the passengers let out terrified yelps as they cover their heads with their arms, the officer stepping off the train without even batting an eye. His ears ringing, Harry grabs the closest person — which just happens to be Louis because Niall apparently followed after the officer without Harry noticing — and holds onto him as if his life depended on it.

“We’ll be out soon, H,” Louis whispers and awkwardly wraps his arms around his sobbing figure. “Sh, it’s going to be okay.”

“That’s what the soldiers told us before they pointed their guns at us,” Harry whimpers, pressing his nose against the crook of Louis’ neck to hide his tears.

“What soldiers?” his body shifts slightly as if he were looking for said soldiers.

“They said they were taking us somewhere safe,” Harry ignores him, his hands shaking like leaves. “I could feel Alyosha’s little heart through his clothes as I carried him. I-I told him they were decent men, that they wouldn’t hurt us…”

“No one is pointing guns at you, Harry!” Louis whispers loudly, pushing Harry away to hold his shoulders and look him in the eye. “You’re taking this too far!”

“Not if I’m really him!” Harry retorts weakly, a blurry Louis frowning at him through his tears.

“Sh!” he hisses, clamping a cold hand over Harry’s mouth. “Listen, we’re almost out. _Nothing_ is going to happen to you as long as Niall and I are around, alright?”

When Niall returns a few moments later, his face has gone as white as chalk and his voice starts to quiver when he talks. “I feel like I’m about to have a heart attack; _two_ Czech officers just came aboard to arrest _three_ men travelling together.”

“But that could be anyone…” Louis starts to complain, trailing off when Niall holds up a paper with rough sketches of people that look like … the three of them. “What the _fuck_ are we going to do?”

“The only way is to get off!” Harry exclaims. He stands up and wipes his tears with the back of his hand, awkwardly climbing out of the window he was leaning against a while ago after pushing it open with all the force he has.

The sound of the people inside the train erupting into chaos and Niall sticking his head out of the window to yell at him about _something_ is drowned out by the bitter wind whizzing past his ears and the loud whimper making its way up his throat when the train starts to slowly move.

He’s finally made it onto the roof without dying when he glances down and watches Niall and Louis both climb up with difficulty, the handles of their three trunks carefully placed in the crooks of their elbows, and stand next to him, their faces red and sweaty as the three of them stumble from side to side as the train starts to pick up its speed.

“What the hell do we do now?” Niall asks, his chest heaving, and looks at Harry with panic in his wide eyes. Harry turns to the snowy in front of them and sucks in a deep breath.

“We jump!” he yells out and doesn’t wait for the other two when he leaps off the moving train, his eyes squeezing shut as he hopes he doesn’t land in a rock and make all this go to shit.

 

*＊✿❀　❀✿＊*

 

**_Blisko Polskiej Granicy_ **

Officer Gorlinsky grips the telephone in his hand so hard his knuckles are starting to turn white and he grits his teeth together as Malik tries to stutter out the situation. “Are you trying to tell me that the train crossed the Russian border and _they weren’t on it?”_

“No, sir — I mean — yes, sir.” Malik sounds slightly breathless and Gorlinsky pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “It’s a temporary setback, sir. They think they can run from us forever but rest assured, we _will_ find them.”

 

*＊✿❀　❀✿＊*

 

**_Выборг_ ** **_, Росси́я_ ** ****

The sky above them rumbles loudly as Louis, Niall and Harry briskly make their way across the dark forest, their faces red from the cold and coated in frozen sweat and their clothes covered in snow and wet mud.

“Louis, wait!” Niall calls loudly, his chest heaving as he falls onto his knees. “Wait a second; Harry can’t go any further; he’s clearly exhausted.”

Harry raises an amused eyebrow at his words and reaches up to tighten the red ribbon holding the ponytail at the base of his neck.

“The Polish border is only ten kilometres away from here. We’ll be safe once we get there, c’mon!” Louis runs off holding onto his satchel and trunk and Harry follows after him after a second, their shoes sinking into the wet snow. 

“Wait for me!” Niall yells, holding his mud-covered trunk above his head just as rain starts pouring down on them.

 

*＊✿❀　❀✿＊*

 

**_Blisko Polskiej Granicy_ **

“Follow them to Paris,” Gorlinsky hisses into the telephone as two secretaries whispering to each other walk past his open door. _“If_ he is not Feliks, bring him back. We’ll make sure to make an example out of him.”

The other line is quiet for a second too long and Gorlinsky starts to wonder if Malik has hung up when he nervously asks, “What if he _is_ Feliks, sir?”

“Finish your father’s job. Leave him floating in the Seine.” he ignores Malik’s sharp exhale. “It’s very simple, Malik; you merely point your gun, then you pull the trigger and the job is done.

“Of course, sir,” Malik mumbles and there’s a soft rustle on his side of the line.

“Enjoy your new position, Officer. The telephone will be new.”

 

*＊✿❀　❀✿＊*

 

**_Une Colline Surplombant Paris, France_ **

The long-faced man who was kind enough to get them to Paris safely when he saw them walking on the road, soaked to the bone and covered in dirt and dried out leaves, stops almost at the top of a tall hill and the loud engine turns off with one last quiet rumble but Harry doesn’t notice until Louis slams the door shut, too busy staring at the small trees with delicate pink flowers on every since branch and the lilac hue of the sky that is too beautiful to be true.

_“La belle France!”_ Niall exclaims as Harry gets out, expecting the ground to be completely frozen and slippery but the moment he sets his foot down, he realises he has never been on more solid ground in his life.

“It’s just like Russia,” Louis says blandly, arching an eyebrow as he turns in a circle to take in his surroundings.

“Except Russia is _more_ beautiful,” Harry mumbles, then winces, the words tasting bitter the moment they leave his mouth.

“Russia is _not_ the world! Open your hearts and minds to all this and learn something, dammit!” Niall scoffs loudly and stomps his foot twice, sniffling a second later. “Oh God, I’m getting emotional.”

“Why have we stopped?” Harry wonders out loud, ignoring Niall’s little outburst, before wandering back to the car, leaning down to talk to the driver with a small smile on his face

 

***＊✿❀　❀✿＊***

 

Louis doesn’t even realise he’s staring at Harry and the stupidly long curl that the wind keeps pushing into his face with a stupid fond smile on his face until Niall speaks up.

“He’s going to break your heart, Louis,” he says quietly. “You do know that, right?”

“Oh, fuck off,” Louis snaps, tearing his eyes away from the delicate pink flower that has fallen on the top of Harry’s head to glare at Niall. “What do _you_ know about anything?”

“I know that if they accept him as Feliks, you’ll never see him again.” Niall’s looking at him with so much pity in his blue eyes and a frown between his dark eyebrows and he cannot stand it.

“As usual, you have no idea what you’re talking about, Horan.”

 

***＊✿❀　❀✿＊***

 

“This is as far as he goes!” Harry says happily as he skips back to a suddenly pissed off Louis and a sulky-looking Niall that beams as soon as he spots Harry. He slowly puts the two suitcases in his hands down on the ground and nervously glances at Louis, who has his arms crossed over his chest and is impatiently tapping his index finger against his forearm. “But he says that we’re almost there and that you can see all of Paris from the top of the hill.”

“Perfect!” Niall runs forward to eagerly pick up his trunk and look up at Harry with excitement written all over his face. “Are you two prepared to be astonished?”

Louis waits until Niall has begun to run uphill to tightly wrap his arms around Harry’s middle in a quick hug. “I can’t believe we made it.”

“I didn’t doubt you for a moment, even when I was mad at you.” Harry smiles faintly and circles Louis’ shoulders with one arm. “Thank you, Louis. I mean it.”

“Thank Niall,” he scoffs playfully against Harry’s collarbone before pulling away with a small twinkle in his eyes.

“I can see the Eiffel Tower from here!” comes Niall’s excited yell from the top of the hill, making them both chuckle and shake their heads. “It is actually _right there!_ ”

Louis’ eyes widen and it seems that his grudge from before has disappeared into thin air because he takes absolutely no time in running up the hill with a boyish grin on his face, leaving Harry alone to stare up at him with an exasperated look in his eyes and a small, fond smile on his lips.

As he nervously starts following Louis and Niall’s footsteps to the top, he can feel his heart beating so fast in his chest it feels like it’s going to give out at any moment and the courage he has slowly — but surely — been building up over the past two months keeps trying to slip out of his body, but he cracks his knuckles, lifts his chin and holds it in.

All his life — or what he can remember from it —, people have always told him that there will always be a whole ocean full of choices he can make, but as he feels his bones rattle anxiously, Harry realises that no one ever mentioned that the fear he’d be feeling when he found out that someone _actually_ could be waiting for him would be a possibility.

_Home._

_Love._

_Family._

Every single person has had those three things in their life; Harry’s sure he must’ve had them too at some point, but now that he _knows_ he might still have them somewhere, he is completely aware that he will never stop until he finds them. 

“One step at a time, Harry. There’s no rush,” he reminds himself quietly, focusing on the fallen petals he’s been trying not to step on. _One foot, then another._

When he finally gets to the top and slowly lifts his eyes, the uneasiness in his stomach getting stronger by the second, the breath he had been holding immediately gets knocked out of his lungs and he stumbles back in surprise.

The beautiful city stretching out in front of him is lit up by golden lights that just seem to get brighter as the violet sky steadily gets darker. His mouth falls open as he trails his eyes from the blinking lights and fixes them on the tall triangle-like structure standing in the middle of the city and next to a wide river that reflects it back perfectly. It’s lit up with so many golden lights that it looks like the tip touches the sky and goes on for forever and it’s the most beautiful thing Harry has seen in his entire life.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, his mouth and eyes wide open while he stares at the tall blinking tower but after some time, he feels Niall’s hand clap down on his shoulder and Louis lean his shoulder against Harry’s and he feels himself grin wider than he ever has before when Louis reaches up to poke the dimple on his cheek with the tip of his finger and whisper,

_“Welcome home.”_


	2. Chapter 2

**_Un Hôtel dans les Champs Elysées. Paris, France ~ 1925_ **

Despite Niall’s incessant protests, their entire first day in Paris was spent sleeping on the most comfortable beds Harry has ever felt in his life. Because most of Niall’s friends had escaped to Paris after the revolution began, he had managed to get three connected rooms in a cream-coloured hotel with pristine white walls, slippery marble floors and gold chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.

On the second day, Harry wakes up sprawled across the deliciously warm bed, the covers drawn up to his chin and his hair tangled up in such tight knots it  _ hurts _ when he moves his head. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he plants his feet on the plush rug and pads to the ridiculously big bathroom and stares at his reflection on the spotless mirror.

As expected, his hair is a wild mess — it sticks in every possible direction and the shorter curls stick to his sweaty neck. The darker circles around his eyes are — unfortunately — still there, but they are much lighter than they have ever been and the dark hairs growing on his cheeks itch to be shaved as soon as possible.

After rummaging through every single drawer in both the room and bathroom, Harry finds a pair of small silver scissors in one of the drawers next to the window and a shaving blade under the sink, and places them on the counter next to the faucet.

His hair goes first — he chops it all off in three uneven cuts and lets the badly braided bunch of hair fall behind him with a soft  _ thud _ . Harry doesn’t want to look at what it looks like just yet, so he simply grabs the shaving blade and clumsily steps into the first shower he’s had in months.

The hot water falling over his body immediately relaxes his sore muscles and he sighs, closing his eyes to take a moment and realise that he’s no longer on the run — he doesn’t have to hide or be scared anymore.

He shaves his cheeks blindly, wincing at the way his skin prickles under the blade when it brushes over it, and spends a ridiculous amount of time lathering his now short hair with the expensive shampoo that smells like pears. He ends up accidentally scratching his neck many times, his hands obviously not seeming to understand that there’s no hair left to wash anymore.

When he steps out of the steamy shower, the hairs on his arms standing up and the faint red lines running down his neck stinging a little, he takes a tentative step toward the foggy mirror while wrapping one of the warm, fluffy towels around his waist. His eyes go wide as plates when he drags a wet hand across the warm glass and catches a glimpse of his reflection. Instead of curling by his collarbones like it had done just thirty minutes ago, his hair now barely reaches his ears, the curling water dripping from the straight tips making it hang by his face heavily.

“Good morning!” Niall crows happily when Harry swings the door open, his eyebrows knitted together. He’s dressed in a smooth dark blue suit and the lapels over his plain white shirt are adorned with beautiful threaded golden flowers, just like the thin belt circling his waist. The bright grin slowly fades from his face when he notices Harry’s hair and a look of terror appears in his eyes. “What…  _ What the hell did you do?” _

“Figured I needed a change,” Harry replies nonchalantly, but his grip on the cold doorknob tightens to keep his hands from trembling. 

Niall lets out a long sigh and swings the suit he’s holding with his index finger over his shoulder and pushes at his chest until he stumbles back into the room. After shutting the door with the back of his foot, he carefully drapes the suit over one of the plush sofas in the middle of the room, turns back towards a confused Harry and fixes the pair of round glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

“Bring me those scissors because I swear to God, I would rather  _ die  _ than let you out of this hotel looking like  _ that.” _

 

***＊✿❀　❀✿＊***

 

When Harry and Niall finally make their way down to the lobby, it’s nearly noon.

Muttering under his breath entire time, Niall managed to work a miracle on his hair and somehow dress Harry in a tight pair of black trousers, a silky black blouse that feels smooth against his skin with a thin ruffled ribbon wrapped around the collar and a cream coloured coat.

Harry spots Louis the moment they walk into the lobby, his loud laugh catching in his throat when he does.

He’s sitting on one of the velvet sofas that have been pushed up against the royal blue coloured wall, his naked left ankle resting on his right knee as he frowns down at the French magazine in his hands. His hair has been cut as well, but not as much as Harry’s, and the caramel tips still reach the nape of his neck but the front is now shorter and has somehow kept its natural wind-swept look. He’s been dressed in a soft-looking black shirt, dark trousers that don’t look as tight as Harry’s and a matching buttoned up coat with a white handkerchief on his left breast pocket.

“Louis!” Niall yells from across the room and Harry feels the tips of his ears burn at the disapproving look the person behind a marble counter shoots them. “It’s time to go, come on.”

Unimpressed, Louis flicks his bright eyes up at Niall, then suddenly stops to stare at Harry, who’s shyly moved to hide behind Niall.

“Well,” he drawls, arching an eyebrow. “Where’d the princess hair go, sweetheart?”

Harry tries not to make it  _ too  _ obvious that he almost just choked on his spit and died and instead smiles faintly and ruffles the front of his now fluffy hair, then tucks a short curl behind his ear.

“Just needed a change, s’all,” he mutters and slips his hands into the soft front pockets of his trousers.

Louis is silent for a second, his eyes fixed on Harry’s face, and then he just… nods. “Looks good, Curly.” The sofa squeaks quietly when he pushes himself up and smoothes the nonexistent wrinkles from his coat. “So. Are we ready to go?”

Blushing, Harry turns toward a beaming Niall, who excitedly starts toward the strange spinning door at the front of the hotel, the high soles on his shoes resonating around the quiet entrance hall.

The first thing he notices when they step outside is the colours.

People dressed in bright reds and blues and yellows and hairbands with sparkles on them walk all around him, sometimes bumping into him and muttering a quick  _ Excusez-moi _ before scurrying away, but their happy and relaxed laughs fill Harry’s stomach with joy. Across from the hotel, there’s a cream coloured establishment with a sign that reads  _ ‘Le Latte D’or’ _ in bright red cursive letters, the tiny bell on the door jingling loudly every time someone walks in or out.

_ “Bienvenue, mes amis!” _ Niall spreads his arms and tilts his head back toward the warm rays of the sun, making Harry drag his wide eyes from the café to look at his friend, his lips parted in surprise. “This is Paris! Well, not all of it. So, c’mon. Follow me.”

Harry and Louis share an amused look as they follow their friend, the foreign smell of freshly baked pastries and expensive perfumes filling their noses and the cool spring Parisian air ruffling through their hair like soothing fingers.

As they walk down what Harry learned is called  _ l'avenue des Champs-Élysées, _ he feels as though his eyes are going to pop out from how wide they have been ever since they left the hotel. Everywhere he looks, he’s blinded by the grins on everybody’s faces and the sparkles on their clothes and feels a pang of jealousy in his stomach at every pair of rosy cheeks he sees.

Before he realises it, Niall has stopped talking  _ and  _ walking and Harry, too distracted by the short pink trees that line the river they have been walking next to for most of the morning and the delicious smell of coffee, runs into his back and lets out a quiet grunt.

“Wha’?” he mutters and reaches up to rub the tip of his nose with the back of his hand.

_ “Voilà, _ Harry,” Niall says, looking at him with a cheerful twinkle in his eyes. “We are currently standing on  _ le pont d'Iéna _ , over the river Seine. And behind you, is the magnificent  _ Tour Eiffel.” _

Harry hears Louis’ sharp intake of breath, then feels a hand tightly grip his forearm.

“Harry.  _ Look,” _ he hisses, digging his nails into the fancy material of Harry’s jacket.

Nervously, he turns on his heel and slowly lifts his eyes until the sun is hitting them and a loud gasp leaves his mouth when he notices the proximity of the tall, triangle-like structure he had seen before. Unlike the way it was lit on the night they arrived, the four large lights next to each leg are off, but the Eiffel Tower is as magnificent in broad daylight as it is in the middle of the night.

“Holy shit,” he breathes out, ignoring the faint pain on the base of his neck from having his head tilted too far back. “It’s beautiful.”

“Can we go up?” Louis asks, but his voice sounds far, far away and Harry feels like he’s drowning, but in the best way possible, like there’s a warm blanket of happiness wrapped around him.

“Not right now, no,” he hears Niall answer, then feels a warm arm around his shoulders. “First, my friends, you  _ have _ to try French pastries.”

Harry stumbles after Niall as the older man tugs on his arm but even as they walk away, his eyes never once leave the marvellous tower.

 

***＊✿❀　❀✿＊***

 

“You know, Paris is literally the key to everything.”

Harry stops the spoonful of  _ crème brûlée  _ in front of his open mouth and looks away from the old lady feeding birds with small breadcrumbs to raise an eyebrow at Louis. “What?”

“Well, if you think about it,” Louis uncrosses his legs and leans forward to rest his arms on his knees, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. “Paris  _ is  _ the key to your heart.”

Harry continues to look at him with a blank stare, the silver spoon still held up to his parted lips, and Louis huffs as he takes a bite off a chocolate covered  _ madeline _ . “I mean,  _ this _ place is technically what decides whether you get to live in a palace made out of gold and wear a ridiculous crown.”

Harry shrugs and  _ finally  _ puts the spoon in his mouth, happily crunching on the hard caramel. He glances at the shops on the other side of the street from the café he and Louis are sitting in, then flicks his gaze back to the smiling man in front of him.

“First of all, I don’t think gold palaces exist.” He points his spoon at Louis, who sneers and mimics him quietly under his breath. “Second of all, crowns are definitely  _ not  _ ridiculous—”

“Third of all?”

“I was getting there, you absolute  _ ass. Third of all, _ we’re not even sure they’re going to accept me as Feliks,” he mutters the last part and makes it his job to stab at the hard caramel in his plate with the tip of his spoon. 

“Oh, shut up!” Louis snaps around his madeleine, but Harry’s  _ genuinely _ so relieved that there’s no actual bite behind it that he ignores all the crumbs flying from his mouth. “You’re a fuckin’ spitting image of him. You just ‘ave to gain a bit more weight in your face and curl your hair and there you go.”

He leans forward to playfully tug at Harry’s short hair and he slaps his hand away gently, muttering a quiet  _ shut up.  _ Louis opens his mouth to give him a probably sassy retort but Niall decides to come back from wherever it is that he’s been for the past hour.

_ “Bonjour! _ Who wants to dance?” His face is red with contentment and it looks like he has not stopped smiling all day. He just looks so  _ happy. _

Harry feels like he’s floating on air.

“There isn’t any music,” Louis says and quirks an eyebrow, but Niall just scoffs and pulls a disoriented Harry up from his seat, the spoon he was holding landing on the table with a loud clatter.

“So?” he asks, taking both of Harry’s hands in his. “We’ll make our own!”

They just stare at Niall as he starts to sing loudly in French and dance around in circles, pulling a stumbling Harry along with him. He hears Louis snort from behind him and he has the urge to turn around and hit him across the head so he can stop laughing but a man with a worn out violin sitting across from the  _ café _ starts to play a melody that fits perfectly with Niall’s singing and Harry fucking  _ beams,  _ and suddenly there are couples all around him dancing and laughing and the warm blanket surrounding him tightens up a little.

 

***＊✿❀　❀✿＊***

 

Louis watches Niall twirl Harry around, notices the way Harry’s eyes crinkle up when he lets out a high-pitched laugh and how they’re both smiling so hard he can’t even see their eyes properly, and leans back against his chair, feeling the corners of his lips tilt up slightly.

It’s just after the third time that Harry tucks a stray curl behind his ear that he decides he would very much like to dance with him, but just as he’s standing up and grabbing his coat, two men dressed in dark slacks and grey sweater vests walk up to Harry with cheeky smiles on their faces and hold their hands out.

Harry’s face goes bright pink and he looks between the two men with wide eyes, his eyes parted for a second before he places his ridiculously big hand on the one on the right’s outstretched palm, sending the other one an apologetic smile before being whisked away.

Niall lets out a delighted cackle as Harry manages to step on the stranger’s foot  _ only  _ once and profusely apologise in what probably is perfect French, and walks back to their table, his face even more flushed than before as he sits on what was Harry’s chair and picks up a chocolate-covered  _ madeleine _ from the Louis’ plate.

“Sure. Take them all, why don’t you?” Louis grumbles, glaring at the brunet as he crosses one leg over the other and rests his ankle on his knee. Niall pointedly ignores him and continues to happily munch on his  _ madeleine _ and watch Harry converse with his — much shorter — dancing companion.

Scoffing, he follows Niall’s eyes and can’t help but think for the millionth time that this is  _ exactly _ where Harry belongs. His white jacket and black trousers and short but flowing curls and wide, dimpling grin blend in perfectly with the bright cherry blossoms and the expensive clothes everyone in this city seems to wear. 

As soon as that thought enters his head, his heart feels unexpectedly small and he finds himself frowning down at the table despite the cheerful atmosphere and sunny weather.

And for the first time since they got to Paris, Louis wishes he never left Russia.

 

*＊✿❀　❀✿＊*

 

**_Pont Alexandre III, Paris_ **

Harry stands on one end of  _ le Pont Alexandre _ , leaning against the cold railing and gripping a thin book full of information about Paris close to his chest. The wind blows his hair into his face as he relishes his first moment alone since he left the hotel.

After tripping over the stranger he was dancing with and falling straight on his face right in front of everyone, Niall decided to call it a day while Louis unashamedly cried with laughter from behind him, and shoved the book Harry’s currently holding and dragged them both away from the café before announcing he was going to look for a place called  _ Невский клуб _ and walking away from Harry and Louis.

“Well,” Louis had slowly said after staring at Niall’s retreating figure until he turned a corner. “I think ‘m going to go take a bath.”

Harry snorted and, suddenly feeling a bit too hot, took his jacket off and draped it over his forearm. “Just don’t finish the city’s hot water, please.”

“Can’t promise you anything, Curly.” Louis sent him a cheeky grin and sped off in the opposite direction Niall had gone.

Now, standing in front of the long white bridge, Harry feels like something heavy keeps pressing down on his lungs as he stares down at the sparkling water. He tries to convince himself to look up — to face what’s in front of him — but his heart rate simply picks up and he has to grip the surprisingly cold railing to keep himself grounded.

Instead, he places the book on the railing and carefully opens it, his trembling fingers flipping through the pages until he gets to the lengthy section about the bridge.

_ Considered the most beautiful bridge in all of Paris, the  _ Alexander Bridge  _ was named after… _

“Tsar Alexander III,” he whispers to himself, his eyes wide as he takes a stumbling step back.

When he looks up in shock, the sky has become a soft orange hue and the sun hides behind a light yellow cloud and suddenly he’s aware of every single sound and smell around him. As the sky above him slowly darkens, the black lamps lining the bridge are lit up one by one, the bright lights reflecting on the surface of the splashing river.

Harry makes himself take the few necessary steps to stand at the entrance of the bridge and he takes a long deep breath, the thought of him crossing it  _ alone _ suddenly feeling so, so wrong to him. He moves his right foot forward a little and a boat honks loudly in the distance. The wind rustles his hair as he takes another step and his mouth unconsciously lifts into a small smile as a fleeting thought crosses his mind.

Maybe — just maybe — there  _ is _ somebody waiting for him on the other side. Maybe they’re both standing under this beautiful sunset, longing for someone who might not even be real on opposite sides of the empty bridge.

Having finally made up his mind, Harry squares his shoulders, puts his jacket back on and tucks the book under his arm before making his way across, his dark shadow following close after him.

 

*＊✿❀　❀✿＊*

 

**_Un appartement à Montmartre, Paris_ **

  
  


Liam Payne opens the glass door that leads into the living room, relieved that his back is facing the Count that tries to keep up with him and rolls his eyes in exasperation.

“I’m sorry, Count Leonid,” he says for the millionth time, turning to face the stout man standing in the middle of the room with what hopes is a loud enough sigh to show him how  _ annoyed _ he is. “She simply is too tired tonight.”

“She cannot always be tired, Liam,” the Count tries to reason, somehow managing to move the bushy dark moustache above his lip. “The Dowager Empress  _ knows  _ I have had important papers for her to sign for a month now.”

“Papers that appoint  _ you _ as the heir of the Romanov fortune, Leonid.” Liam chuckles darkly, shaking his head while wondering how a Count can be so bloody  _ daft. _

“Might I remind you that she is an old woman who outlived her place on this Earth many years ago? Feliks is a figment of her imagination and you know it, Mr Payne,” Leonid snaps and puts his weight on that ridiculous cane of his. “I will have to be recognised as the  _ only _ beneficiary of Tsar Nicholas’ estate eventually.”

Liam sighs again, restraining himself from pushing the man out of the flat and instead opens the front door and forces a polite smile onto his face. “I’ll tell her you were here.”

Count Leonid takes two steps toward the open door, then stops. Smiles crookedly. “Will you be at the Neva Club tonight, Liam?”

“Along with every single White Russian in Paris,” he replies, impatiently tapping his foot.

“I expect to have the first dance.”

Liam holds his tongue rather than reminding him he’s nearly 20 years younger and he simply gestures to the hallway outside. “We’ll see.”

Leonid nods curtly, gives Liam’s hand a tight squeeze as he exits the flat. Liam quickly shuts the door and thoroughly wipes his hand on his trousers, his face set into a wince.

“Is he gone?” a gentle but firm voice comes from the hallway, followed by the familiar sound of a hard cane hitting the wooden floor and Liam steps away from the door, bowing slightly as the Dowager Empress enters the room.

“Your Highness.” he straightens his back his back, his eyes settling on the frail woman standing in front of him.

Maria Romanov stands straight as a tree, her long silver braid swung over her bony shoulder. Unlike the colourful nightgowns she wore before her family’s tragedy, her nightgown tonight is a simple white thing that brushes her ankles, the black cane she holds with trembling hands standing out against the plain fabric.

“I swear, someone could punch that man right in the face and he would continue to insist,” the Empress scoffs and slowly settles down on the plush cream-coloured sofa pushed against the wall.

Liam snorts loudly at her words before he can help himself, his face immediately heating up and he quietly clears his throat.

“Only four letters this week, your Majesty.” He pulls out three of the four wrinkled envelopes inside his jacket and places them on the Empress’ outstretched hand, sitting down on the soft chair next to the sofa.

She goes through the envelopes quietly and swiftly, her eyebrows pinched together as she carefully pulls out the letter inside the last envelope in her hands. Her jade eyes scan it and a bitter laugh leaves her lips.

“God, how I wish I could just lose hope,” she sighs and lets the letters fall on her lap. “Remember how hopeful I was at first? ‘Could this really be my darling Feliks?’ But a person can only be let down so many times before she gives up.”

“I will not let you give up, your Majesty,” Liam says firmly, his heart squeezing painfully in his chest.

“My dear Liam.” the Empress gives him a small smile and places her warm hand on top of his. “We both know I’m an old woman but I am Maria Fyodorovna Romanov. No one will ever understand how hard this is.”

He clears his throat quietly and carefully pulls out the fourth letter that has been burning a hole into his chest ever since he sat down.  _ “Your Majesty, do you remember how happy we were in Levadia?” _

“Levadia?” the Empress raises an impressed eyebrow. “I’m surprised they do their homework.”

_ “Unfortunately,”  _ Liam continues,  _ “life’s events have brought me to Buenos Aires. Bring me to Paris and I promise you I will convince you that I am your grandson.”  _

“He wants  _ me _ to pay for his trip!” she scoffs, throwing her hands up in frustration. “At least that boy from Ohio paid everything himself! What even  _ is _ Ohio? It sounds like a dreadful place.”

Liam’s shoulders shake as he holds in his laughter and picks up another letter from the pile.  _ “Dearest Grandmama—” _

“No! I was always Nana, not grandmama! They think I’m a fool.” She takes the letter from Liam’s limp hand and tears it apart as he watches with wide eyes, too surprised to do anything. “No more letters. No more ‘visitors’. No more  _ anything.” _

Liam only sighs and gets up, now unfazed by the Empress’ outburst. “There will be more young men, ma’am. What shall I tell them?” 

“Tell them that they’re too late,” she says softly, her eyes focused on the black and white photograph on the crystal table standing next to the window. “The Tsesarevich Feliks Romanov is dead — and the Dowager Empress is dead with him.”

Liam opens his mouth as he steps forward, ready to remind her that she should not give up hope,  that Feliks might still be alive and well, but she just shakes her head and holds up a pale hand.

“Leave me.”

He bows his head and takes a small step backwards, waiting to see if she will say anything else, but her Majesty’s teary eyes are still fixed on the young boy in the pictures and Liam leaves the room without saying another word.

 

*＊✿❀　❀✿＊*

 

**_Neva Club, Paris_ **

The night has turned cold when Liam walks up to the Neva Club, the turmoil of worries that had been swirling around in his stomach disappearing as soon as he sees the club’s lit-up sign. A guard dressed in red stands in front of the double doors, chatting amicably with an excited couple.

He recognises the woman as Lady Aleria when he hears her cheery laugh and a small smile appears on his face despite his gloomy mood. The amber-coloured dress she’s wearing reaches her knees and the sequins on both the dress and her headband glimmer like small golden coins under the street lamps every time she moves.

“The Neva Club is the  _ only _ place where time has stood still!” she’s saying as she playfully bumps her hip against the guard’s, who nervously chuckles but does not move away from his place. 

“Good evening, gentleman. Lady Aleria,” Liam greets them as he reaches the building, his lips curved into a polite smile.

Aleria’s face lights up at the sight of him and she happily wiggles her ringed fingers in greeting. Her husband, whose name Liam can’t be bothered to remember, merely glances at him before turning his nose away.

“Shall we go in?” Liam nods his head at the guard and he opens one of the doors, letting a merry piano tune out into the empty street.

Aleria takes her husband’s arm and all but drags Liam inside after pressing a quick kiss on the young guard’s cheek. Liam chuckles in amusement and thanks him before heading inside with the clear intention of forgetting everything for a while.

 

***＊✿❀　❀✿＊***

 

The sharp branches scratch at Zayn’s bearded cheeks as he steps out from behind the bushes that stand across the club. His eyes narrow at the trio that walk into it, the words  _ traitors  _ and  _ cowards _ running through his mind while he approaches the now closed doors.

“Good evening, comrade,” the guard greets, giving Zayn a quick once-over.

“I beg your pardon?” he scowls, his eyebrows knitted together. The guard flinches slightly at his harsh tone, but doesn’t look at all affected otherwise. 

“Only off-the-train Russians wear those shoes; I have the exact same pair hidden in my closet. You should stop by the Russian tea shop on Rue de l’Arc.” Zayn scoffs loudly and spins on his heel to walk away. “It’s number 17. I heard they were hiring.”

The soles of Zayn’s shoes squeak against the wet pavement as he stops short and turns back towards the guard, holding himself from shooting the man by balling his hands into tight fists.  _ How  _ dare  _ he assume I want to be associated with this kind of people? _

“I’m not looking for work.”

Three women approach the club, their matching silver dresses swishing around their knees. Zayn averts his eyes from them, stepping away from the guards, and attentively listens to their conversation. It’s hard to keep track, however, because they switch between French and Russian so fast that he thinks he will get whiplash. He stares at the ground and silently curses every single man, woman and child who chose to leave Russia and live in this god-awful place.

The women greet the guard in Russian and enter the club without sparing him a second glance, their excited giggles mixing with the lively music that streams out through the open door. When they’re gone and the music is trapped inside once more, the guard’s mouth twitches under his dark mustache as he raises his eyebrows at Zayn.

“You shouldn’t loiter,” he says and nods his head toward the club. “Go to the back; Hugo will give you something to eat.”

“I don’t want your  _ scraps,”  _ Zayn spits, jerking away as if the words were being boiling water.

“Being so proud won’t get you anywhere, comrade.”

“I’d rather starve than eat your scraps! You make me ashamed to be Russian!” he’s yelling by the time he’s finished and there are people trying to figure why an outsider was causing a scene, but as Zayn tries to control his breathing, he finds he doesn’t care. He won’t see these people ever again. 

The guard tilts his head, curiosity filling his eyes as he studies Zayn’s face, and shrugs his shoulders before turning around and entering the club. Zayn stays frozen to the floor as he tries to understand the situation until his empty stomach rumbles and he reluctantly leaves, the silver moon following close behind.

 

*＊✿❀　❀✿＊*

 

The alcohol running through Liam’s veins makes the packed room spin a little and the chattering voices around him blend together with the animated music like paint on a canvas and the knots in his shoulders slowly loosen up as he knocks back his drink in one big gulp and signals the barman for another one.

“Thank God for the Neva Club,” Count Igor is saying, the ice cubes in his whiskey-filled glass clinking against the sides as he raises it. “Here’s to leaving that section of Hell behind.”

“Only an idiot would go back.” Liam’s words are slightly slurred and he accidentally spills his wine on his new shirt when he raises his cup, but the people’s eyes are on his face instead of on the bleeding red stain and he can’t bring himself to care about it. “My husband regretted it the moment he set foot back in there. Ten families were living in our ballroom, can you believe? It just wasn’t the Russia he remembered.”

“What was it our wonderful poet said?” Count Gregory asks, his elbow resting on the pianist’s bony shoulder. 

“Ah, they all say the same thing.” Liam waves his hand dismissively.  _ “Past glories, present griefs.” _

The crowd laughs politely, some of them sending him tight-lipped smiles with no real emotion behind them, before returning to their conversations. Liam slumps back against his seat and grabs his cup, only to find out that it’s empty and its previous contents have coloured his shirt crimson.

“It’s quite tragic, isn’t it?” a person slides into the chair across from him and a strong scent of lilies wafts past his nose.

“Hm? What is?” he looks up at the person in confusion and he’s met with a pair of stormy grey eyes looking at him with amusement.

“We used to have palaces and diamonds, but now…” Lady Lucya sighs dramatically and flicks her black hair over her shoulder. “We merely have a flat and what we fled Russia with.”

Liam cracks a small smile and lifts a shoulder to his ear. “Imagine what it must feel like to be the only valet when there were so many of us. At least we’re not dead, that’s what I say.” 

“We’re not dead, no.” She shakes her head, her crimson lips forming a bitter smirk. “We’re in France instead.”

“What’s the point of wallowing, though?” he asks, watching a waiter pour more wine into his cup. “I mean, sure. We’ve nowhere else to go and we’ll be killed if we go back to Russia, but. There’s always alcohol and that’s all I’m trying to focus on right now.”

Lucya laughs and they clink their glasses together. “I’ll drink to that.”

“To Russia.”

“To Russia.”

The wine in his throat almost goes down the wrong way when Liam puts his glass down on the table and sees a blue-eyed man sitting where Luyca had been just seconds ago.

“Niall!” Liam coughs out, his eyes watering as he hits his chest and waits for the painful burning in his throat to go away.

“Hello, Liam,” Niall greets him with a small smirk, but his eyes are as soft as they’ve ever been. 

“What are you doing here? I thought the Bolsheviks shot you years ago!” Liam exclaims before focusing his eyes on the red liquid sloshing in his glass in a weak attempt to stop his heart from racing.

“They tried, but when they were given the order, no one had the courage to pull the trigger,” Niall jokes, but there’s a slight edge in his voice that makes Liam look up in curiosity and a question form on his tongue. 

“I can’t imagine why not,” he mutters and quirks an eyebrow. It draws a loud laugh from Niall that makes Liam’s heart flutter in a way that it hasn’t in many years and he’s still chuckling as he stands up and offers Liam his arm.

“Believe it or not, I still melt hearts,  _ ma cher,” _ Niall says as he leads them out of the club. “Just like you still melt mine.”

The air that hits Liam’s face is too cold for him to come up with an answer and he simply lets himself be pulled towards the benches in the park across the street. 

“I crossed an entire continent for this, you know.”

Liam huffs quietly and lowers himself down onto the cool bench. “I can’t imagine why you would do that. Are you still up to your new tricks?”

“Admit it, Li,” Niall teases, wagging a finger at him. “You’re happy to see me; you’re just too proud.”

_ I am,  _ he thinks. Instead, he says, “I’m glad to see you’re alive, but that’s as far as I’m going to go.” A pause. “What _ are  _ you doing here? In Paris, I mean.”

“I thought you got my letter?”

“I did get it. I tore it up.”

“You’ve grown hard, darling,” 

“I’m not the man you remember, Niall,” Liam sighs, feeling every muscle in his body tense up as his worries swiftly seep back into his head.

“No, you’re right. You’re much lovelier than I remembered.” The grin on Niall’s is crooked at the edges as he takes Liam’s hand and begins to place kisses along his forearm. “My hot-blooded, passionate—”

_ “That _ was then.” He pulls his arm back, shaking his head in exasperation. “When life was perfect.”

“We can make it perfect again! Here, in Paris.”

“It’s not that easy and you know it.”

The air turns colder for a moment, the hairs on Liam’s forearm standing up against the gentle breeze, and he silently curses himself for forgetting his coat inside. He’s about to stand up to go get it when he feels something warm and soft being draped around his shoulders.

“You know, I can still clearly remember the day we met at court,” Niall tells him quietly and smiles at the embarrassed groan Liam gives. “You were standing across the room, right next to the Dowager Empress, and I couldn’t stop staring at you.”

“Everything was good between us, Niall,” Liam murmurs, shaking his head. “We had a future together—”

“Until I stole your wedding ring.” 

“Until you stole my wedding ring.”

They’re quiet for a couple of seconds, nothing but colourless memories hanging in the air between them. Niall’s coat is warm around Liam’s back and he slips his arms into the comfortable sleeves as he searches for something to fill the gap.

“We did have a good time together, didn’t we?” Niall finally says, his bottom lip pinched between his forefinger and his thumb. 

“Why are you here?” Liam asks again to deflect his question, shifting his body to the side just in time to see Niall’s eyes widen slightly and a faint blush rise to his cheeks.

“Well… there’s a young man I want you to meet.”

“Oh, is  _ that _ all?”

Niall rolls his eyes at the sarcasm in Liam’s voice and reaches into his coat pocket, his fingers brushing against the side of Liam’s thigh as he pulls out two white tickets. “I believe that there will be someone at the ballet on Monday that will want to meet him too.”

“And who would that be?” he raises an eyebrow curiously, but there’s something wrapping itself tightly around his heart as he asks.

“The Dowager Empress,” Niall says carefully.

“Absolutely not,” he instantly replies and pushes himself off the bench, determined to get away from this mess as possible.

“Liam, wait!” Niall follows after him and wraps a hand around the crook of his elbow to stop him from going any further.

When Liam whips around to tell Niall to leave him  _ alone, _ he’s instead met with a pair of cold lips pressed against his own. Not even a second passes before he completely melts into the kiss, years and years of suppressed feelings crashing back into him with the force of a thousand drops of water falling all at once.

Niall holds him close for what seems like ages, a smile etched onto his mouth, before pulling away with his eyebrows raised and his eyes closed. “We’re going to change history, Li. Just you wait.” 

Liam scoffs in a playful way, pressing a quick kiss to Niall’s cheek and dragging him back into the club with a wide grin on his face.

Neither of them notice the ticket that falls from Niall’s hand as they go.

 

*＊✿❀　❀✿＊*

 

**_L’Hôtel, Paris_ **

The night is peaceful, the only sound that can be heard being the crisp air scattering green leaves throughout the empty streets of the city. The sheets that had been tightly wrapped around Harry’s body at the beginning of the night are now pooled on the floor and the soft creaking of the bed fills the dark room with every twist he does.

“Who are you?” he calls in distress.

In his dreams, he’s standing in a never-ending green field with the sun shining down on it. Faceless people form a circle around him, their bodies rigid as statues. Harry turns in circles in hopes of finding anyone that might seem remotely familiar, but he’s only met with pristine white clothes that gimmer under the sun. 

A sudden flash of pink appears in the corner of his eye and he quickly turns toward it, his breath catching in his throat as he’s met with the girls he first saw in Russia when he opened the music box that Louis gave him. The crowns they had been wearing are gone, however, and their dresses are now covered in what seems to be a mixture of blood, dirt and snow. Unlike last time, they’re accompanied by three other people whose clothes seem to be as bloody as theirs.

“Who are you?” Harry asks, tentatively shuffling closer. “Every night you come and I still don’t know who you are.”

“We will continue to come,” the tall man behind the girls says, his tone gentle, “until you remember us.”

The woman next to him steps forward, the blood that covers her chest dripping down onto the skirts of her dress. “Have you said your prayers yet? God will give you the answers.”

The young boy sitting on the floor tilts his head to the side curiously before being unexpectedly lifted into the air by an invisible force and he begins to swing his legs back and forth as if he were on a swing. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” he asks, looking down at Harry with his blank face. “We’re all going to die soon. You will too... Do  _ you _ have a secret?”

Harry hesitates for a second and looks away from the boy.  “I have no idea who I am.”

The laugh that comes out of his mouth sends shivers down Harry’s spine and he instinctively steps back. “You’re silly.  _ Everyone _ knows who they are.”

Pain suddenly shoots across Harry’s body and he looks down at his waist in surprise, his trembling fingers hesitantly touching the area and coming back coated in scarlet. When he looks back up to yell for help, the people around him are vanishing into thin air one by one.

“No! Come back!” Harry shoots up from the bed, his body covered in sweat and as his eyes adjust to the darkness, he realises he’s back in his hotel room. 

The door that connects Louis’ room with his is pulled open and warm light washes over the bed as Louis runs in, his eyes wide with alarm.

“Harry?” he calls softly, his feet shuffling against the cold marble floor as he walks towards Harry. “Are you alright?”

“My dream keeps coming back,” Harry answers, exhaustion creeping into his voice as he runs a hand through his tangled hair. “It’s like I can’t escape it.” 

Warm fingers wrap themselves around his wrist and Louis leads them back to the bed, his voice kind as he speaks. “You’re okay, H. That’s all it was — a dream.”

“Will you stay with me?”

“Of course, yeah.”

The bedsheets are still warm as they sit down and Harry slowly shifts closer until their thighs are pressed against each other while Louis rubs small circles on his wrist with his thumb. 

“Who do you think I am, Louis?” Harry asks after a moment of silence, his eyes tightly shut. 

“If I were the Dowager Empress,” Louis says slowly, “I think I would want you to be Feliks.”

“Really?”

“Well, I’d want him to be an intelligent, handsome young man.”

A surprised puff of air leaves Harry’s mouth as heat rises to his cheeks. “Is that who you think I am? An  _ intelligent, handsome young man?” _

“Yeah, I do.” Louis’ fingers leave his wrist to give his hand a comforting squeeze.

“I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to give me a compliment,” he says in a teasing voice as he bumps his shoulder against Louis’. A beat passes until they realise they’ve been holding hands for some minutes now and they jump apart as if they’d burned each other. “Do you really believe I’m him?”

Louis takes a deep breath. “I want to believe you’re the boy I saw years ago.”

“I don’t understand.”

“A few months after I turned ten,” he starts, the moon casting dark shadow over his cheekbones, “there was a parade in the city. I don’t really remember what was being celebrated, but the royal family was there. There were thousands of people in the crowd but I spotted the prince right away.

“He was, what, about eight? And yet he was sitting up straight and so proudly and I couldn’t stop staring.”

Harry listens to him intently, nudging Louis’ knee to get him to continue. “What happened then?”

“I started to push through the crowd, calling his name, and  _ somehow _ I made it to the front. The carriages hadn’t made it to my section yet, but when it did, I reached my hand out and — it was quick, but he smiled at me. Then the carriage kept moving and he was gone. But I… I’d like to think that if I could find a way to go back to that day, I’d find him again.”

Harry closes his eyes for a moment and if he tries hard enough, he can feel the warm summer sun on his skin and hear the crowds cheering at the top of their lungs. He smiles.

“You’re making me feel like I was there too.”

Louis stands up from the bed and smiles down at him as he leans against the bedpost. “Maybe you were, Harry. You just have to try to make it part of  _ your  _ story.”

“Okay, erm. There was a parade, passing through the streets…” he trails off hesitantly but Louis is still smiling at him and there’s blood rushing in his ears. “It was a really hot day, not a cloud in the sky, and — a young boy in the crowd suddenly caught my eye.

“He was thin, not very clean. There were so many guards pushing the crowd back, but he dodged in between and managed to get on the street…”

Colours start flashing through his mind and loud cheering overwhelm his senses as he stands up in trembling legs to follow the sound to the window, where it seems to be the loudest. 

“Then the boy called my name,” Harry continues, looking out at the dimly-lit street, and even though it was too hot and my suit was making me sweat, I… I smiled.” 

He turns around to face Louis with a grin so wide it feels like his face is going to split in half, his heart is beating too fast for it to be normal, and says in a choked voice, “And he bowed.”

The look that appears on Louis’ face is such a comical mixture of shock and disbelief and if Harry weren’t on the verge of tears, he would laugh at it. 

“I never told you that.”

“You didn’t have to; I remembered!” when Harry looks out the window, he sees a sunny summer day and thousands of people standing on both sides of the street, cheering as they wave handkerchiefs at the tall white carriages passing by. The two people that sit in the first carriage merely smile and wave, and the medals on the man’s red coat occasionally clink together as the horse pulls them forward. On the second carriage there’s four children sitting in it waving excitedly at the crowd, radiant grins on their faces. 

It’s not until the scene fades away that Harry realises he was finally able to see the family’s faces and notice that they all shared his eyes.

“It  _ was  _ you,” Louis breathes out, disbelief written all over his face as he approaches Harry. 

“It was,” Harry says, turning toward a wide-eyed Louis with a sheepish smile. “I guess you did find me, after all.”

“It seems like I did.” Louis begins to slowly lean forward, his eyes fixed on Harry’s lips, but he abruptly pulls away like he’s gotten caught doing something bad, and kneels down on one knee. 

“Your Highness.”

 

*＊✿❀　❀✿＊*

 

**_Palais Garnier, Quartier de L'opéra, Paris_ **

The golden halls of the  _ Palais Garnier _ have been lit up by crystal chandeliers that make the women’s dresses sparkle as they make their way up the white marble staircase. The soles of Niall’s shoes click against the floor as him and Liam follow the Dowager Empress up the first flight of stairs. Her silver dress reaches the floor and swishes around her ankles and the jewels around her neck glint under the light. 

“I’ll go to my seat alone, Liam.” She turns around to face the man next to Niall, her dark eyes holding no emotion as they settle on him. “I believe I know my way by now.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Liam nods. “I’ll be there after everything is settled.”

The Empress gives a short nod and slowly walks up the shorter staircase to her right without saying another word. Niall lets out the breath he didn’t know he had been holding and looks around curiously when the hall suddenly quiets down, noticing everyone bowing their heads as she leaves. He copies their actions before Liam can elbow him in the ribs.  _ Spend too much time living without royals and see how fast you forget protocol.  _

Once she’s gone, the people straighten their backs and easily fall back into their conversations, oblivious to what might happen when the ballet is over. Liam sighs in frustration and runs a hand through his carefully combed hair.

“Hey, it’s all going to be okay,” Niall assures him quietly before pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “I say we should just try to enjoy—”

The loud echo of shoes hitting the floor interrupts him and he whirls toward the sound, his eyes widening with horror when he spots the source. 

Louis  _ fucking _ Tomlinson is running down the hall, his face turning red with effort as he skips two steps at once to reach them and a timid smile on his lips. He’s, at least, properly wearing the black tuxedo Niall gave him that morning, his white gloves are  _ on _ his hands and his hair has been slicked back with vaseline. 

“Sorry I’m late,” he says breathlessly to an unimpressed Niall before turning to Liam with an outstretched hand. “Louis Tomlinson.”

“Liam Payne, pleasure to meet you.”

“Your shoelace is untied,” Niall hisses at him and points to the black lace lace resting on the floor. Louis looks like he wants to talk back, but he simply forces a sarcastic grin onto his face and drops down on one knee. 

Liam places a hand on Niall’s arm when he rolls his eyes impatiently and sends him a warm smile, as if to say  _ calm down, it’s going to be okay,  _ the muscles on Niall’s shoulders relaxing at the touch. 

“Am I late?” a voice pulls Niall’s attention away from Liam’s retreating figure as he follows the Empress’ steps, and he gets whiplash from how quick he does a double-take. 

Harry is standing next to Louis, who is still trying to tie his shoelace, and looking around the place with pure wonder on his face. Unlike all the other men, he is not wearing a plain tuxedo but a pair of black pants with a thin silver line going down the outer sides of his legs and a white button down tucked into the waistband, and his jacket is a deep shade of blue adorned with silver sequins throughout the fabric and along his lapels. 

Louis looks up at him in surprise and instead of standing up to greet him, he stays frozen to the floor, still on one knee. A moment of them simply staring at each other passes before a knowing smile spreads across their faces and Louis stands up straight, offering Harry his arm.

Niall watches with curiosity as a pink flush appears on Harry’s cheeks as he takes Louis’ arm with uncertainty. They begin to go up the stairs by themselves, too absorbed in their own world, and only stop to turn around when they realise Niall isn’t with them. 

“Aren’t you coming?” Louis asks, an eyebrow raised.

“I’ll be there in just a minute,” Niall replies, motioning for them to go on without him.

Harry narrows his eyes, as if he were trying to figure out what the problem is, but Louis tugs on his arm gently and they continue walking, the sequins on Harry’s jacket glimmering with every step he takes.

Once they’re gone, Niall drags his hand down his face. Deep down, he knew from the beginning that they were going to fall for each other — if they way one looked at the other when he wasn’t looking was anything to go by, but the idea had left his mind the moment they’d gotten on the train to Paris. He’d thought of everything — what he would say to Liam when he saw him again, the things he’d have to do to convince the Empress if she decided not to accept Harry as Feliks, but he’d completely forgotten about romance.

When he looked at Harry, Niall could see the confidence radiating off his body and he immediately knew that both him and Harry would end up with a broken heart whether Harry is accepted or not.

As he makes his way to their box, all he can think about is that he should have never let them dance.

 

***＊✿❀　❀✿＊***

 

Harry can feel his body trembling with excitement as the lights dim and the chatter filling the theatre instantly dies down. He inches forward in his seat, ignoring the amused chuckle Louis gives, and gapes at the stage when loud music resonates against the walls and dancers come out from the sides.

He stares at the dancers as they move around the stage so delicately it’s almost like they’re floating on air until a quick flash appears on the other side of the theatre. His eyes fall on the box that is right across to the one where he, Louis and Niall are sitting. At first, it’s hard to make out the figure, but once his eyes adjust to the darkness, his heart falls to his stomach.

His brain recognises the Dowager Empress immediately and he grips the railing in front of him so hard that his knuckles go white. The light shining on her is not very bright, but he can see the slight frown between her eyebrows and the purse of her thin lips. Her eyes are set on the girl twirling in the middle of the stage, but it’s clear that her mind is somewhere else from the way she’s gripping the program in her hand. 

_ Could this really be? _ Harry thinks, a heavy feeling settling in his stomach.  _ Everything I have worked for —  _ we  _ have worked for lays on that woman’s hands. _

He doesn’t realise he’s been staring until the Empress’ eyes flick to him, and her face turns so pale it looks like she’s seen a ghost.

 

***＊✿❀　❀✿＊***

 

When Louis glances to the side, he notices that half of Harry’s face is obscured by the shadows and he can’t really see his expression, but there’s a small tick in Harry’s jaw that always appears when he’s nervous and despite the darkness, Louis does his best to follow Harry’s gaze. 

It turns out he’s staring at the box where Liam Payne is sitting and for a moment, Louis’ chest burns with something that feels like jealousy, until he spots the woman sitting next to Liam and the fire instantly turns to ice. 

At that instant, Louis can feel Harry’s nervousness rattling inside his own body and he has the urge to reach out and hold Harry’s hand — to tell him that everything is going to be okay. His hand twitches slightly at the thought, but instead he curls his fingers into a fist to hold himself back.

_ Just see this through,  _ he tells himself.  _ Get rid of these feelings and finish the job. _

 

***＊✿❀　❀✿＊***

 

Even though Zayn is not paying attention to the ballet, he pretends to read the information written about _Le Lac des Cygnes._ Whenever the crowd claps, he looks up from the program to glance around the theatre. It’s the fourth time he’s done this and yet he hasn’t found the trio he’s been looking for since he got off the train. 

When the lights come back on for the intermission, he finally manages to spot a familiar mop of curls across the theatre in one of the boxes, he has to double-check that he’s looking at the right person.

Harry definitely looks healthier, his cheeks now round and rosy. His hair is much shorter, curling around his ears instead of falling to his shoulders the way it did when he was back in Leningrad. Zayn scowls at it, loathing the way France is already changing him despite the short time he has spent here.

He watches Harry throw his head back with laughter as a cleaner-looking Tomlinson emerges from behind the curtains of their box with a look of utter surprise on his face. Harry’s expression softens as Tomlinson waves his hands around excitedly and tells the story behind his surprise and for a moment, the thought of leaving them be and simply returning to Russia empty handed emerges in his mind.

_ No, _ he thinks, forcefully pushing the thought away.  _ You have a job to do. _

 

***＊✿❀　❀✿＊***

 

Once the ballet is over, Liam waits until the crowd exiting the building has thinned to lead the Empress out of her box and into the small private room that is next to the staircase. Fear gnaws at his stomach and he glances at her Majesty’s face with curious eyes, searching for any kind of sign that tells him that what he is about to do is a  _ terrible  _ idea, but there is none.

“Liam,” she says, lowering herself onto one of the plush sofas, her eyebrows drawn together. “Can you make sure they send in some champagne?”

“Yes, your Majesty.” He bows his head and quickly walks out, his chest suddenly feeling too tight to be comfortable.

He spots Niall and Louis waiting at the bottom of the staircase and he makes his way to them despite his body’s urge to run away from the situation and never come back. Niall’s face lights up when he sees him, but there’s a nervous edge to his smile. Louis is simply leaning against the railing and anxiously picking at his nails.

“Is she in a good mood?” Niall asks, once Liam’s reached them. 

“She’s never in a good mood,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair for what must be the millionth time that day. “What did you talk me into this time, Horan?”

Niall opens his mouth to reply, but the soft clacking of heels draws their attention away from each other. As a young man approaches them, Liam fears he might be seeing a ghost. The man says something when he stops next to Niall, but it sounds muffled, like cotton has been stuffed into Liam’s ears.

He’s seen those green eyes before, and when they settle on him and a dimple appears along with a shy smile, he’s suddenly pulled back into a time full of giggles echoing through the palace halls and emerald eyes twinkling with mischief under the sun and endless picnics in the gardens.

“Your Highness.” The words escape his mouth before he can help himself. Deep down, he knows it’s the right thing to do, so he bows. 

The faint smell of lemongrass reaches his nose not even a second later and a strong hand is placed on his shoulder. “Please, you musn’t.”

Liam looks up in surprise, mostly because he was expecting a confident man — someone who knows that what Liam said is the right thing — and he’s met with yet another shy smile and two dimples carved into his pale cheeks.

“Look at him, Tommo!” Niall whispers excitedly. “We did  _ such  _ a good job.”

“I don’t want to get your hopes up. She might not want to see you,” Liam warns.

The young man squares his shoulders and sets his jaw, a barely-visible tick appearing every few seconds — it all looks so familiar to Liam that his heart aches.

“I’m ready.”

Liam nods, fixing the lapels of his jacket, and sends Niall a half-hearted glare as he turns toward the room where the Empress is waiting.

With tension taking over his body, Liam leads the last ever possible Feliks to the room that will change his entire future. 

 

***＊✿❀　❀✿＊***

 

“You have a visitor, your Majesty,” Liam announces before stepping in and shutting the door behind Harry, leaving Niall and Louis on their own in the empty hall. 

Louis’ composure breaks not even a second later and he starts to pace from side to side, teeth digging into his bottom lip. “What do you think they’re saying? Actually — don’t say anything. Why am I worried? It’s not my problem. I’m not worried.”

Niall just stares at him blankly as he burns holes into the marble with his shoes before standing up and saying, “I can’t do this. If Liam asks, tell him I needed a glass of vodka.”

Louis watches him go in silence, too preoccupied with other thoughts to go after him, and goes back to pacing once he’s disappeared down the hallway. Suddenly, he’s too aware of how  _ quiet _ everything is, save for his shoes clacking on the floor. He strains his ears to try and see if he can hear anything in the room, but he’s too far away and much too scared to move any closer. 

_ Everything is going to be okay, Louis. _

The plan is foolproof, he knows it is. (Except — nothing is foolproof.) Harry gets a family, Louis and Niall get rich. How can they lose, when they have everything to win?

A thought appears in his mind and he stops for a moment to process it, his eyes wide. He wonders if their paths will ever cross again like they did when they were children. Though they had agreed that this would be goodbye if everything worked out, there’s a hand wrapped around his heart, squeezing every time he thinks about it and — 

“Oh,” he says slowly, slumping against the railing as the realisation dawns on him and he feels his shoulders relax, like they’ve been waiting for his brain to catch up with his heart. He didn’t know how much Harry mattered to him, but looking back at all the times he stared for a second too long and laughed just a little too hard at his jokes, Louis can now see he’ll do anything to make Harry smile.

_ Funny,  _ he thinks.  _ We have everything to win and yet, the only thing I lose is —  _

A door to his right opens and he whips towards it so fast his neck cracks. Harry walks out with his jaw clenched, something Louis hasn’t seen in months.

“What happened?” Louis asks carefully, walking forward to meet him halfway.

“She wouldn’t even look at me,” Harry says quietly, his voice hoarse. “‘Liam, tell this impostor I know his kind too well. All he wants is money and he doesn’t care how he’ll get it.”

“I’ll tell her the truth. I’ll tell her that—” Louis starts to say, but then Harry  _ finally _ looks at him, his eyes full of anger and disbelief mixed all at once and all of the air is punched out of Louis’ lungs.

“That I was just a pawn in your scheme?” he spits out, his hands balled up into fists by his sides. “You made me believe I was someone who doesn’t exist anymore. I was desperate when I met you, Louis, but I never lied.” A pause. “I hate you for that.”

“Harry, wait!” Louis calls out, but it’s so weak and Harry doesn’t hear him. He disappears into the dark hall without another word. 

For a second, the world around him spins but then a hand is placed on his shoulder and he jumps, coming face to face with a frowning Liam Payne.

“I’m very sorry, Mr Tomlinson,” he says, his voice full of pity.

A third person emerges from the room and something in Louis’ chest erupts in angry flames when his eyes land on her.

“Is he gone?” the Dowager Empress asks, her voice much too casual for someone who’s just destroyed a wonderful person’s life with just 20 words.

“Your Royal Highness,” he says cooly, forcing every bow in his body bow.

“How  _ dare  _ you address me?” If glares could kill, Louis would be on the floor right now, but since they can’t, he simply squares his shoulders and matches the look in her cold, dark eyes.

“Harry doesn’t want your money,” Louis tells her, stepping closer. “He had no idea. It was  _ my _ plan to bring him to Paris.”

“Do not come any closer, young man,” the Empress warns him, her grip tightening on her cane.

“Please. I believe he really  _ is _ Prince Feliks.”

“I will not hear another word of this nonsense.” Turning her nose up, she begins to walk away from him.

Impulsive is not a word Louis often uses to describe himself, but as he runs forward and forcefully steps on the silver,  _ extremely  _ expensive-looking train of the Dowager Empress’ dress, he understands why people sometimes do.

“He only wants what is rightfully his!” Louis explodes, hands waving around wildly. “Try to imagine what his life has been like since he lost his parents, his siblings.”

“I do not need  _ you _ to remind me what happened to  _ my  _ family!” She turns around to face him, her face bright red as she tugs her dress out from under Louis’ foot. “I lost every single person I loved that day.”

“So did he, ma’am. Harry survived for a reason; to heal what happened. But Russia will  _ never _ heal if you don’t let him!”

The sound of an open palm coming in contact with bare skin fills the hall and Louis doesn’t realise he’s the one being slapped until his hand comes up to his stinging cheek. He looks up at the Empress in shock, his mouth opening and closing as he desperately finds something to say.

“That is no longer a concern of mine. It hasn’t been for many years.” 

“God will judge you harshly,” Louis grits out, his eyes watering unexpectedly. He tries to blink the tears away. “You know history already has.”

Her eyes go wide and a million emotions flicker over her face, but Louis is quick to regain his pride and turn his back on her, leaving the French Opera House once and for all.

 

 *＊✿❀　❀✿＊*

 

**_La Chambre d'Harry, Paris_ **

If it were possible, there would be smoke coming out of Harry’s ears. But it’s not; instead, hot tears prickle in his eyes and his hands won’t stop shaking as he folds what little he had in Russia — and  _ only _ that — and puts it in his tattered trunk. He can feel Louis and Niall’s regret filling the room to the brim, suffocating him, but he won’t — he  _ can’t  _ — make himself look at them.

“You played with  _ my _ life and you didn’t even care. Not only did you tell me I was someone I’m most definitely not, but you made me believe it.” A tear rolls down his cheek and he wipes it away angrily before it can reach his chin. He turns to grab the remaining shirt, but his eyes fall on a small wooden replica of the Eiffel Tower and he picks it up carefully, admiring the delicate carvings on the wood. “What is this?”

“I bought it for you,” Louis informs him quietly and — honestly, he shouldn’t be allowed to feel bad, “when we stopped at —”

Harry cuts him off by throwing it into the bin under the desk. “I don’t care, I don’t want it.”

“Harry…” Niall starts and Harry hears him taking a step forward, but he’s quick to whip around and point at him with an accusatory finger.

“Don’t you dare, Horan,” he growls, hoping his glare accurately projects the turmoil of feelings he’s feeling, and Niall returns to where he had been standing. “No wonder you got dismissed from court. People like you deserve every single bad thing that has happened to them.” He flicks his eyes to where Louis is standing and tries to ignore the way his heart clenches at the regret written on his face. “Both of you do.”

Louis’ eyes don’t move from Harry’s face and he  _ almost  _ looks like he wants to apologise, but Harry turns away from him before he can even open his mouth, feeling tears welling up in his eyes once more.

“I used to admire how proud you were of you who are, Louis, despite everything you’d gone through.” The door opens and closes, but he ignores it, instead grabbing a familiar-looking book and scoffing at the title before throwing it in the bin along with the Eiffel Tower. “Save your Russian history for your next Feliks. Or, better yet, how about you go and shove it—”

“I believe saying that to a royal is considered treason in multiple countries,” a cold voice says from behind him and his heart falls to his stomach as he comes face to face with the Dowager Empress.

“Your Imperial Highness,” he gasps and immediately bows, the hair on the back of his neck standing up under her calculating gaze.

“It would seem history wants us to… play this game until we reach the end,” she sniffs and glances around the room with furrowed eyebrows, probably wondering how they were able to get such nice rooms. Speechless, Harry motions for her to sit down, but she shakes her head. “No need, I will be brief; who are you and what do you want?”

“I… I believe I am the oldest son of…”

“Spare me my family history, young man. There are books written about it all along the Seine, anyone could read it.”

“No one ever told me you would be so cruel.” 

“I am an old woman,” she says. “Kindness is a luxury nowadays.”

Something flashes in Harry’s mind and takes a deep breath. “My Nana used to be the most loving woman in the world.”

The Empress’ mouth twitches, but she hides it by pursing her lips. “Yes, well. That was before her entire family was murdered.”

He watches her sit on the soft bench in front of the bed and push his sparkling jacket towards the other side of the bench, his eyes widening as another memory pops into his head. “She used to smell like orange blossoms.”

“That’s a common enough scent.”

“No, not hers. She used to have it sent from Italy in a box of polished wood.” He approaches slowly, too aware of her eyes following his every move, and settles down next to her. 

“How dare—” she starts, but quickly seems to change her mind. “Who was my favourite lady-in-waiting?”

“You didn’t have one. You thought they were all too slow, so you kept dismissing them.”

“You are clever, I’ll give you that.” Suddenly, she shifts closer to him, staring at him in silence until he looks away, and her mouth curves into an emotionless smile. “I’m trying to find the resemblance. I don’t trust my eyes.”

“Perhaps you should wear glasses, then,” Harry blurts out before he can stop himself, clamping his mouth shut once he realises what he just said. The Empress pretends not to hear him. 

“Tell me which three—”

“Why don’t you want me to be him?”

“I have learned losing hope means I won’t be disappointed. Your kind  _ always _ disappoints.”

“Maybe I won’t if you give me the chance,” he offers, his heart pounding in his chest.

She gives him another blank smile and it sends a shiver down his spine. “I don’t believe Feliks exists anymore.”

“No.” Harry shakes his head stubbornly. “You don’t  _ want _ to believe it.” 

“What was your mother’s full title?”

“Why are we still doing this?”

“Her Imperial Majesty the Empress of all—”

Their voices have begun to overlap and Harry can see the angry clouds forming behind her eyes, but he can’t bring himself to care. He can only focus on the way his fingers won’t stop trembling against his thigh, no matter how hard he tries, or the tick in his jaw as she continues to list the never-ending title of Feliks’ mother.

“She was Mama to all of us!” The tears that have been threatening to spill finally do and he wipes them as quickly as he can with the back of his hand, shame flooding his entire body.

The Empress is unimpressed. “How come all of you end up crying at some point? Do you all take theatre lessons together? Tears will get you nowhere.”

“Why did you come here?” Harry asks, too tired to continue arguing about who he is and who he isn’t. 

“Your young man told me very clearly that you were not part of his scheme.”

_ He’s not my young man, _ Harry thinks, but he doesn’t correct her. Instead, he says, “He’s telling the truth, I wasn’t. I had no idea.”

“He thinks you really are my grandson,” she continues. “He says you believe so, too.”

“I do,” he says slowly and the realisation that what he’s saying is true sinks in. “But I can’t be him unless you accept me.” 

“You can’t  _ be _ anyone until you know who you are first.” She fixes him with her brown eyes, so dark he can’t see the pupil, and it feels like she’s looking into his mind, reading his thoughts.

He’s reminded of the cold hospital bed he woke up on when he was just eighteen, with no memory of where he was or  _ who  _ he was or why his hip hurt so much whenever he moved. He thinks of walking into an abandoned palace, only wanting to find answers in a faraway place and instead finding two hopeless men who were willing to do anything to find a better life, even if it meant making him believe their lies.

“I know,” Harry sighs, looking down at his trembling fingers,

The room is quiet for a second and Harry braces himself for the Empress to stand up and leave him and his fantasy world behind, but she simply takes a deep breath and rests her laced hands on her knee. 

“Do you know what it feels like to lose everything — my son, his family. Everything I held dearly, all gone, just like that. And for what? The good of Russia?” she chuckles drily. She looks down briefly before looking back at Harry with tears in her eyes. “I will ask you one last time, be  _ very  _ careful what you say. Who  _ are _ you?”

“I don’t know anymore,” Harry finally admits. There’s a war going on inside his head, two sides fighting for the same thing but not knowing what is real or not anymore.

He looks around the room, searching for something to say, when his eyes fall on a round object standing on the desk. Pushing himself up, he walks up to the music box and carefully picks it up, his fingers instantly taking hold of the wind-up key on the bottom. 

“Do you remember the last time you saw Feliks?”

“I didn’t know it would be the last time!” Even though his back is to her, the pain in the Empress’ voice is clear enough to picture the expression on her face. “If I did, I would have never left their side.”

“You were leaving for Paris. You never came back,” Harry tells her, colourful images springing into his head as he walks back towards the bench, winding up the music box. “You gave him a music box the night you left; I believe this was it. “

The lid cracks open, revealing the dancing couple and letting out a soft melody that fills the room. The Empress’ eyes widen and she reaches for the music box with an unsteady hand, her bottom lip trembling with emotion as Harry sits back down next to her.

“That used to be our lullaby,” she whispers, putting her hands over Harry’s. They’re warm and as soft as anything he has ever felt before and the touch feels so familiar to him that a tight knot forms in his throat.

“I told you I’d visit you in Paris, Nana.” His voice breaks on the last word and suddenly he feels like a young boy once more, getting tucked into bed late at night by one of his parents while guests dance in the ballroom downstairs. “We’d go to the ballet together and walk on Grandpapa’s bridge.” 

“You never got the chance to meet him… I loved him very much.”

“It’s okay, Nana,” Harry says, taking her hand and giving it a tight squeeze. “We’ll walk on the bridge for him. For  _ all _ of them.” 

Nana’s mouth opens slightly, like she’s going to say something, but then she closes it again, too overwhelmed. A beat passes. “What took you so long?” 

“That doesn’t matter anymore. I’m here.”

“You’ve come too late, I’m afraid.” 

Harry gives her a watery smile and shakes his head, shutting the lid of the music box before handing it to her. “It’s never too late to come home.” 

“Oh, Feliks,’ Nana sighs and tightly wraps her arms around his shoulders, her tears soaking through his shirt. Somewhere in the room, a door opens again, but neither of them pay attention to it.

For the rest of the night, all Harry can smell is orange blossoms. 

 

*＊✿❀　❀✿＊*

 

**Montmartre, Paris**

Opening the door, Liam finds, is a terrible idea. All at once, reporters make their way into the hall, their loud questions filling every inch of the place to the brim. Niall sends him an amused glance as they close the door and stand in front of the large group of people, trying to quiet them down. 

“Where was he living before he came to Paris?” Once one reporter manages to raise his voice loud enough to be heard above the noise, everyone else starts to do the same. 

Liam might just kill someone today.

“Did he send a letter?”

“Excuse me, Mr Payne! Over here!”

“Have you considered the possibility that he could be an impostor, too?”

“Good afternoon, gentlemen!” Liam finally manages to say loudly, almost to the point where he’s shouting. “I am Count Liam Payne and this is Count Niall Horan. Now, the Dowager Empress will be here soon, but one always has to wait when dealing with royalty. Until then, we will try to answer as many questions as we can.”

“Did he come here by train?” 

“Is it true he’s insane?”

“Absolutely not,” Liam answers firmly, resisting the urge to roll his eyes in front of the press.

“What does he look like?”

“How does he feel about the situation?”

Liam feels a headache coming and he pinches the bridge of his nose, trying quite hard not to grab Niall’s arm and take them away to a place where not one person has heard about this. Just as he’s about to do it, a servant slips in through the door and leans up to whisper into his ear, and he nods.

“Gentlemen, enough!” he yells over the clamor and the reporters finally shut their mouths, looking at him like animals eyeing their prey. “We will be going in in a few minutes, but I need you to remember these very important details: her Majesty is elderly and believe me when I say that she will  _ not  _ put up with any kind of foolishness. There will be no smoking and absolutely no joking around. Understood?”

“And don’t touch anything!” Niall pipes in, his mouth curved into a playful smile, but one look at the glare that Liam gives him and he steps back, the smile instantly disappearing from his face.

“Please go through that door; the Empress will be with you shortly.” Liam points to the double doors at the end of the hallway and nods at the butler standing beside it to open it. The reporters hurry to walk into the room, notepads firmly gripped in their hands, and Liam can breathe again the moment the doors are closed again.

“C’mon, then,” Niall murmurs and takes a hold of his hand, leading them towards the balcony where their young prince is.

 

***＊✿❀　❀✿＊***

 

The bright camera flash makes colourful spots appear in Harry’s vision and he quickly blinks them away, secretly hoping his eyes weren’t closed when the photograph was taken.

“You know there will be many people who will want to speak with you,” Nana tells him as the photographer prepares the camera for yet another photograph.

Harry — or Feliks? He doesn’t even know anymore — looks down at her with a small smile, nervously reaching up to run a hand through his hair before remembering it’s been slicked back with so much vaseline that even his roots have started to hurt. “That’s alright. All that matters now is that we can finally put the past behind us.”

The door slams open, startling the photographer into tripping over his bag, and Liam and Niall walk in, their fingers laced together tightly. Liam is quick to apologise to the man on the floor, but Niall decides to walk up to Harry instead, a wide grin stretched over his face.

“You look good, your Highness,” he whistles under his breath, not so subtly eyeing Harry’s suit. 

It’s nothing special, not really, but as he sneaks a look of his reflection on the window, Harry decides he quite likes it. Both the pants and jacket are a beautiful shade of ruby red, the fabric light and soft in comparison to the suit he wore to the Opera, and the end of the sleeves have been delicately adorned with small silver sequins that glint under the light every time he moves.

“Shut up,” he mutters, heat rising to his cheeks as he shoves Niall’s shoulder.

“I remember you,” Nana suddenly says, pushing herself up from the chair she’s been sitting on for the pictures with her cane. Harry quickly leans down and offers her his arm and she takes it wordlessly, too focused on flicking her eyes over Niall’s face.

For the first time since Harry met him, Niall looks sheepish, his eyes wide with nervousness. Liam appears at his side not even a second later, having heard the Empress and clearly knowing where the situation would go if he didn’t intervene.

“Don’t make it worse,” Harry hears him hiss into Niall’s ear before smiling at Harry’s grandmother when she arches her eyebrows.

“Yes, your Majesty. Goodbye, your Majesty.” Niall bows sloppily before turning on his heel and walking out of the room.

“I’m not sure I like him,” Nana says.

“He’s not so bad—” Liam starts, a love-struck look on his face, but he sobers up when he sees the way she’s looking at him. “You’re right, your Majesty, he is. He’s a terrible man.”

Liam follows Niall’s footsteps and Nana lets herself chuckle when the door closes behind him, a playful twinkle appearing in her eyes.

“You should start getting used to people agreeing with everything you say,” she tells him. Harry pulls a face and she pats his arm. “Now, where is your young man?”

“He’s not my young man,” Harry grumbles.

“But—” she shakes her head, bewildered. “How can you not have noticed the way he looks at you? He  _ loves _ you.”

“He’s not my young man, Nana.”

She scoffs, looking at him like he’s just grown a second head. “When he refused the reward for bringing you to me, I thought ‘Feliks found himself a prince’. Maybe not birth, but he certainly has the character.”

Harry’s heart stops for a second at her words and he’s left speechless, trying to make sense of it. Louis not only risked everything he had, but also his  _ life,  _ to bring Harry to Paris and convince him that he’s the lost prince, only to turn down the money he was after?

“Louis  _ refused _ the reward?”

“You are Feliks, he said that was his reward,” she says, tightly grabbing his hand. “You have made this the happiest day of my life. Make sure it’s yours too, Harry. I will always be here for you, no matter what you decide.”

Nana smiles and leans up to press a reassuring kiss to his cheek before exiting the room, the sound of her cane against the floor echoing in his ears. Harry stares at the door, unblinking, half hoping that Louis will come in carrying bags that are overflowing with money, but minutes pass and nobody comes. He lets himself fall on the chair where Nana had been sitting on earlier and drags a hand down his face as his mind whirs at a thousand miles per second. 

He should be glad that the running is over, that he is where he’s supposed to be, but it’s not exactly what he had been dreaming of. Nowhere in his plan did it involve falling for the person helping him or even wanting him to  _ be  _ there so they could share their success, but as he actually  _ thinks _ about it, Harry realises it had been written between the lines the moment he stepped foot into the Yusupov Palace.

“Oh,” is all he can say as he slumps back against the chair, too overwhelmed to even react to the realisation.

“It seems you have found your place, your Majesty.” the voice that interrupts him is dripping with venom and Harry’s heart stops when he spots the person standing by the window.

“Zayn,” he gasps, ice creeping into his veins as he jumps up and the officer approaches him. “What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

“I let you go,” Zayn says, a hand placed over the gun that’s strapped to his waist. “That is the first and only time I make that mistake. Paris is no place for a good and loyal Russian.” 

“We are both good and loyal Russians,” Harry shoots back. As Zayn walks closer, he reaches behind himself to blindly grasp the chair and move behind it. His heart pounds against his ribcage and his fingers are starting to turn white from how hard he’s gripping the chair, but nothing scares him more than the blood-thirsty look in Zayn’s eyes. 

“I’ve come to take you home.” He stops right in front of the chair and places his hand over Harry’s, gripping it tightly when Harry tries to pull away. 

“My home is here now.”

“Stop playing this game! If you really are Feliks, do you honestly think history would have wanted you to live?”

Harry feels a rush of anger surge throughout his body and he yanks his hand back, tired that people who don’t know  _ shit  _ about him keep trying to decide who he is. 

“Yes. Why can’t you see that this is over?”

“The Romanovs were given  _ everything _ and they never gave anything in return,” Zayn growls, quickly stepping in Harry’s way when he tries to run to the door, “until the Russian people rose up and destroyed every single one.”

“All but one, Officer. Me.” Harry lifts his chin, suddenly overcome with a strange emotion that he’s never felt before; pride of who he is and he’s not afraid anymore. “Go on, finish what your father didn’t have the courage to.”

“Don’t you dare talk about my father.” A vein bulges slightly in Zayn’s forehead as he pulls out his gun and points it at Harry’s head. His hands shake.

“Finish it, Malik. Shoot me once and for all. That way I’ll be with my family again.”

Harry finds he has no fear left in him as he stares down at the barrel of the gun, but a sense of calm that settles deep in his bones at the knowledge that if —  _ when  _ — the gun’s fired, he will finally be reunited with his loved ones. At least, he thinks, he left Russia. He found his grandmother. He gets to die in a beautiful city.

Zayn’s crazed eyes are moving quickly over Harry’s face and he looks torn between two worlds; a world in which he avenges his father,  _ finally _ makes his memory proud, and a world in which he lets an innocent man live, but disappoints everyone around him. 

“We have to bury the past, Harry.” His voice shakes and his grip on the gun tightens. “There’s a new wind coming.” 

“And soon it will be spring,” Harry finishes with a sense of  déjà vu , taking an unsure step forward. “It doesn’t always have to be about death, Zayn. It can be about new beginnings — a fresh start.” 

“For the last time,” Zayn ignores him. Instead, he squares his shoulders and aims the gun at the spot between Harry’s eyes, “Who  _ are  _ you?”

“I am…” he pauses, unsure of the answer, but then he catches sight of his reflection on the window and notices the way he’s standing; proud, not afraid of anything. “I am the Tsesarevich Feliks Nikolaevich Romanov.”

The words take his breath unexpectedly, but he squares his shoulders, prepared to die for his country and his family. He sees Zayn’s eyes widen for a moment, but then his eyebrows furrow with determination.

“Be careful what you wish for. A revolution is a simple—” the gun clicks and the sound fills the room. Harry shuts his eyes, warm memories flashing through his head as he waits for a bullet to pierce his skin, but it never does. Instead, the gun clatters against the marble floor and a dull thud follows a second later. “I can’t.” 

Harry tentatively opens his eyes to find Zayn on his knees, his head hangin with shame. The gun lies harmlessly next to his thigh and Harry feels a mix of relief and pity wash over him as he walks toward the defeated officer.

“I’ve never meant you any harm, Zayn,” he says, holding out his hand. Zayn looks at it wearily, then up at Harry’s shy smile, and takes it with a small sigh.

“I do believe you are Feliks,” he whispers, so quietly that Harry almost misses it. Almost.

“What will you tell them?” After everything that has happened, it’s nearly impossible to imagine Zayn giving up, but there’s a little voice in the back of Harry’s head telling him to shut up and be glad that he’s alive, so he does.

Zayn hesitates, bending down to pick up the gun and strap it to his waist. When he comes back up, his honey-coloured eyes finally meet Harry’s and they flicker slightly with fear, but his face remains expressionless.

“That I’m not my father’s son, after all.” He turns towards the door, but he seems to change his mind because he looks back at Harry and firmly shakes his hand. “Have a long and happy life, comrade.”

Harry silently watches Officer Malik walk out of the room and his life — for good, this time — as his mind spirals, the words  _ happy life  _ echoing in his ears. He looks around, hoping that the polished floors or the perfect view of the Eiffel Tower or the softness of his clothes will spark a fire inside of him so he knows that he truly  _ wants  _ to go down this luxurious path, but there’s nothing. On the other hand, his heart races when he thinks about eyes as blue as seawater in the summer and imagines endless walks under the Parisian moonlight and confessions being whispered against each other’s skin.

Nana’s voice appears in his head, telling him to make this the happiest day of his life and without giving it a second thought, Harry runs.

 

***＊✿❀　❀✿＊***

 

The sun is starting to set in the horizon, looking like someone decided to paint the sky lilac with a giant brush and dot it with vibrant pink and orange clouds. The lamps in the streets are being turned on one by one and the small flames flicker with the wind, creating shifting shadows on the ground.

The Dowager Empress steps into her living room, Liam in tow, and her heart feels heavy at the thought of losing her favourite grandson once again, but there’s a glimmer of hope right in the center of it and she holds on to it dearly.

“I’m sure he will turn up soon. He couldn’t have made it very far,” Liam is saying, his face paling with worry as he paces from side to side. She feels sorry for him. “Why would he disappear in the first place? You accepted him as the heir to the Romanov fortune; he’d live like a king.”

Mr Horan runs in breathlessly, his hand clutching something, and the Empress feels her nose wrinkle with distaste at the sight of him. She never did like him.

“There’s no trace of him! The room was completely empty, except for this.” he shows them his hand and reveals the music box she’d given a young boy so many years ago. 

She takes it from him carefully and holds it to her chest, her heart filling with love and her eyes with hot tears. “I think we have seen the last of that young boy.”

“Was he really Feliks?” Liam asks shakily. Mr Horan grimaces lightly and wraps an arm around his shoulders, clearly upset at not having the chance to say goodbye to the prince.

The Empress nods, her mouth curling up into a fond smile “My favourite. Strong, not afraid of  _ anything.” _

 

*＊✿❀　❀✿＊*

 

**_Les Rues de Paris_ **

The chilly air nips at Harry’s nose as he runs towards the bridge, trying his hardest not to bump into any of the couples around him and risk wasting more time. His chest burns with the effort and he can feel small beads of sweat forming on his hairline, but as soon the murky water comes into view, all he can do is quicken his pace and hope he’s not too late.

A dark silhouette leans against the railing of the Alexander Bridge, the sky burning with colours above it as the person stares down at the river. Harry instantly recognises the gentle swoop of his nose and his sharp jawline when he crosses the street and his heart decides it is a good moment to wish to burst out of his chest, beating so hard he thinks everyone around him is able to hear it.

“Louis!” he calls out, slowly walking closer. A tingling sensation fills his body when Louis turns to face him with a start and fixes his blue eyes on him.

“If you ever happen to see me from a carriage again, just pretend I’m not there, yeah?” his voice is soft and vulnerable and it sounds nothing like the confident man Harry knows. “I don’t want to be in love with someone I can’t be with for the rest of my life, your Highness.”

Harry’s stomach twists into a tight knot as Louis bows half-heartedly and picks up the trunk laying at his feet.

“I’ve always dreamed my first kiss would be with a prince in Paris,” he winces at the way his voice trembles.

Louis scoffs. “I’m not a prince, Harry.”

“There’s at least four people who would disagree with you. One of them’s an actual Russian Prince…” somehow, Harry manages to crack a joke despite the situation and he takes pleasure in being the reason there’s a smile threatening to take over Louis’ face. He steps forward, gathering enough confidence to place a gentle hand on his prickly cheek, “Lou.”

Louis’ lips are on his before he can even blink; they’re chapped and his stubble is rough against his skin, but it’s everything Harry has hoped for. His cold rings are digging painfully into their skin, but neither of them seem to care as they tug each other closer.

When they finally pull away, there’s a dark flush spreading across their faces and their chests heaving as they try to catch their breath, but nothing matters except for the butterflies swarming around Harry’s stomach and the starstruck look in Louis’ eyes.

“I’ve been waiting ages to do that,” Louis chuckles nervously and leans up to tuck a stray curl behind Harry’s ear.

A laugh tumbles out of his mouth and he leans down to press a kiss to Louis’ forehead. The sky is pitch black now, twinkling stars are scattered all over it, and they look like the sequins on Harry’s jacket.

“We’ve got time to make up for it,” he says and steps back from their embrace, dimples carving into his cheeks as he discovers he’s never been happier. “Loads of it.”

Louis hums happily and leans down to grab his trunk once more, except this time he flashes Harry a wide grin and offers him his arm, which he instantly takes. Louis’ body tenses up for a second, like he still can’t believe that Harry is choosing  _ him _ instead of the life of a prince, but Harry knows he’ll be able to convince him one day. They’ve got time.

A group of six bright stars glint above him and he smiles, hoping that somehow his family knows how much he loves them.

As they walk down the bridge to the other side of Paris, with absolutely no plan or way of knowing what the future will hold, Harry knows that eventually they’ll be okay, no matter what happens; they’ve gone through worse. And as he turns around to take one last look at what he thought would make him feel complete, he knows it’s finally time to build his  _ own _ future and let go of the past. 

It’s okay. They’ve got time.


	3. Chapter 3

Two days later, newspapers across Europe sell out as soon as vendors open their shops to the public. The front page shows two photographs at the top; the Romanov family days before their deaths, their faces showing no emotion as the flash goes off, and the Dowager Empress in her apartment in Paris, her sorrowful eyes looking directly at the camera.

_ “There will be no more Felikses after today,” the Empress told the press the day before today, referring to the thousands of young men who had come from all over the world pretending to be the heir to the crown, Prince Feliks. “The reward that would have been granted to the people responsible for bringing him here will be given to charity in his name.” _

_ When asked if she ever did find her grandson, she simply shook her head and looked out of the window and said, “No, he was only a dream. A beautiful dream that will fade with the rest of us.” _

**Author's Note:**

> hello! i hope you enjoyed this fic because it took me 2 whole years to write it sO. no, im kidding. but i really do hope you liked it n that you at least had a lil fun with it. thank you so much to everyone who helped me write it i love you so so much.  
> if you have any questions i'm on tumblr as @sunshinetour and on twitter as @sunflowrvolumes !


End file.
